pairing: robert reynolds x reader
cw: smut, mentions of the void, overstimulation, dumbifiaction, sub!robert, usage of the term 'good boy'.
robert reynolds is a pervert.
not in a sleazy, frat-boy way. not the kind of pervert that leaves behind smudges on phone screens or searches for content that disappears after midnight. no—bob’s perversion was quieter. more intentional. it was in the way he read. the way he lingered. the way he looked at you like you were the first and last real thing in a universe he barely believed in anymore. the kind that reads neuroscience books with a glassy look in his eyes and one hand suspiciously low on his thigh.
he was draped over the big, circular couch in the middle of the common space—gray, soft, impossibly wide. you’d insisted on it after moving in. you’d pointed out the couch in some overprice magazine—something walker scoffed at—and bob had ordered it the same day without saying a word, just a gentle nod like he understood what you were trying to do. you made space feel like something worth staying in.
the bar stark left behind had made the place look like an empty bachelor pad—just black glass, chrome, and a monument to drinking problems. that didn’t feel like a home, especially not with yelena tossing back beers like water, and walker nursing bourbon while pretending to read his own press.
so you’d pushed for the couch. something cozy. something human. and now there bob sat like a statue come to life, long limbs sprawled across the upholstery, fingers curled around a paperback. “reaching down the rabbit hole.”
you’d brought him the book that rainy sunday. the tower had gone soft and quiet, raindrops streaking the long windows of the library. you’d wandered off, fingers trailing along spines, stopping in the neuroscience section—bizarre, given that everything there usually put you to sleep. but you remembered him talking about it before. how damaged brains lied to themselves, how some patients created entire lives out of nothing just to make their reality feel whole. you’d caught maybe every third word he said, too mesmerized by the way he licked his lips when he got excited explaining neurons misfiring like overloaded circuits.
now, he was devouring it. not quickly—no, he moved through it like a man savoring a final meal. eyes slowly tracking each sentence. sometimes mouthing the words. sometimes whispering them like they mattered more than he did.
you were behind him, mixing a drink in one of those glasses that were too thin to feel real. the ice had melted. twice. but you were still standing there, watching him as he shifted on the couch, his broad frame sinking deeper into the cushions, spine curling just a little. his thighs parted naturally, his sweatpants stretched over the lazy curve of his cock—noticeably half-hard, twitching slightly under the thin fabric. maybe it was the book. maybe it was you.
maybe both.
your fingers absently stirring a drink in one of the highball glasses everyone kept reusing because nobody wanted to admit they were too lazy to do dishes. the spoon clinked gently, ice long since melted into a lukewarm pool. you stood just far enough that he couldn’t feel you, but close enough that you could smell him—the subtle scent of ozone and storm-scorched pine bark that clung to him no matter how often he bathed. the scent of the void, perhaps.
every now and then he licked the pink of his lips, slow and plush, and shifted like he needed to make room for something—like the fabric of those soft gray sweatpants was suddenly too tight across his thighs. he took his time with each sentence, eyes dark and gleaming, mouth slightly open. he was dissecting it, you knew. reading it the way he wanted to be touched.
god, he was teasing you.
or maybe you were projecting. maybe it was you who was the pervert, letting your eyes drift down the hard line of his stomach, to the subtle bulge rising beneath that book. the way he kept twitching, rolling his hips against nothing, like the words themselves were getting him off.
it wasn’t fair—how every little gesture from him felt like an invitation. the way his fingers slid over the paper like he was stroking skin. the way he exhaled through his nose, low and humming. the way he moved his hips to get comfortable, drawing your eye back to the heat pooling in his lap.
when your spoon finally tapped the edge of the glass, the chime rang out like a siren, and bob’s head turned toward you, slow and fluid. his gaze locked on yours, eyes molten gold, pupils slightly blown. your breath caught. the look he gave you was lazy. knowing. like he’d been aware of your stare this whole time and was just letting you think you were sneaky.
something flickered deep in your core. the press of damp fabric between your legs now felt unbearable. your panties clung to you like second skin—soaked, hot, aching.
you were a pervert—but maybe bob was even worse for letting you touch him like this.
your hands wrapped snugly around his pretty, leaking cock, and he was bucking up into your palms like a man possessed. the shape you made with your fingers had him gasping, breathy and high, whimpering out what you thought might be your name—until it broke into a needy, guttural whine that came from somewhere deep in his chest. god, he whined so much.
you tightened your grip, feeling the slick warmth of his pre cum trickling down your fingers, and he sucked in a sharp breath before his head dropped back against the pillow. he looked ruined—beautiful. lips parted and pink, eyes squeezed shut. you swore you could see the gloss of tears clinging to his lashes, streaking faintly down his cheeks. his chest heaved, his throat worked visibly as he swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth.
you started moving your hand again—slow, deliberate strokes that dragged from base to tip with a little twist at the top, just how he liked it. the sound it made was obscene: wet, sticky, lewd, echoing through the room like it wanted to humiliate him.
you leaned down, pressed a kiss to the flushed column of his neck, humming low as you felt a desperate little “please” spill past his lips. you started moving your hand again, slow and tight. the slick, obscene sounds of it filled the room.
“baby,” you murmured against his skin, “you said you were gonna tell me what you were reading about, remember?”
“uh-huh,” he breathed, a thin, helpless sound—like the wind had been knocked from him. there was nothing left in him but pleasure, but you pulled back just enough to force his mind to scramble for the right words. desperate to keep your hand on him, he spoke.
“it was—fuck, wait—neuro—neurotransmitters,” he gasped, words tumbling over each other as his hips twitched again. “dopamine, mostly. i—i was reading about how it spikes during sex—fucking hell—and how just, just touching like this—oh god—it lights up the reward system, m-makes the brain think it’s dying or flying—shit, i don’t even know—”
his voice cracked into a moan, thick and raw. you watched his lashes flutter, lips trembling as he tried again.
“and oxytocin—‘s the bonding one, the cuddle chemical or whatever—jesus, your hands—baby, your hands—” he whined, nearly sobbing with it now, legs twitching as he babbled. “it makes you—mmf—makes you crave the person touching you. that’s why i can’t—why i can’t think when you—ah, fuck—when you do that thing with your thumb—!”
you obliged, dragging your thumb slowly over his leaking tip, watching his entire body jolt under your touch. he sobbed.
“please, i don’t—don’t even know what i’m saying anymore,” he hiccuped, voice breaking as he clenched the sheets, trying to stay grounded. “there’s this part of the brain—nucleus accumbens—that lights up like a fucking—fuck, a firework—when you touch me like this. i—i read that. i swear i read that, baby, i just—oh god.”
he squirmed under you, legs shifting restlessly, hips twitching up in search of more, always more. every little movement of your wrist pulled another moan from him, another soft curse or hiccuping breath. you watched the way his body responded—so open, so reactive. the way his thighs tensed, his belly fluttered, his toes curled. the way his throat bobbed again and again like he was trying not to choke on how good it felt.
you gave him more. your pace stayed slow, steady, torturously controlled. you gripped tighter, just a bit, and felt the tension in him spike. his cock was flushed red, veins standing out, the head swollen and slick with so much pre it coated your fingers, dripped down to your wrist. he was absolutely soaked.
your thumb swept over the sensitive ridge just beneath the tip once more and his whole body arched—his back lifting clean off the mattress, mouth falling open in a soundless cry. his hands clawed at the sheets, knuckles white, nails dragging lines in the fabric like he was trying to hold on to something—anything
you leaned down, kissed the underside of his cock, then the head, soft and slow like you were worshipping him. the taste of him stuck to your lips—salty and hot like honey drawn from a fever dream. you felt his thighs tremble again.
he was close.
your hand sped up just a little, slick sounds building louder, rougher, the friction bordering on unbearable. his head thrashed from side to side, hair clinging to his temples, chest heaving with every breath he couldn’t catch. he was unraveling—falling apart with nothing but your hand around his cock and your mouth praising every inch of him.
“you’re so smart, bobby,” you whispered, voice soft and adoring, your lips brushing the head of his cock before kissing it sweetly. his milky pre clung to your mouth like honey. and the praise—just like always—hit his cock first and his brain second.
that broke him.
his entire body seized—legs locked tight, back arcing sharply off the bed, muscles pulling taut like a drawn bow. his mouth dropped open in a cracked, ragged cry that caught in his throat and splintered into a gasping moan. his cock gave a heavy twitch in your grip—then another—and then he came.
hot, thick release spilled from him in violent pulses, the first rope hitting your wrist with a warm, wet slap. it was creamy, almost milky in color, streaking across your hand and his lower belly in messy, uneven lines. he came hard—a lot—like his body had been holding it back for far too long. more followed in sharp bursts, painting his skin in long, slow ribbons that glistened in the low bedroom light. it clung to him, sticky and hot, catching in the fine trail of hair below his navel, smearing against his tense abdomen, dripping from the flushed head of his cock in long, glossy strands. your grip stayed steady, coaxing him through it with tender, unrelenting strokes.
he whined—high and soft and pitiful—as his hips gave a last, desperate jerk, like his body still hadn’t caught up with the release tearing through it.
“good boy,” you breathed, voice low, thick with praise and want. “look at you, baby. that’s it. you made such a mess.”
the words hit him like a second orgasm.
he whimpered again, legs trembling, hands fisting into the sheets with weak desperation. his chest rose and fell in frantic, shallow gasps, sweat-slick skin glowing in the soft light, flushed pink across his cheeks, his chest, the tips of his ears. he looked utterly, exquisitely ruined—come-drunk, dazed, blinking up at you like he couldn’t remember how to speak.
you watched his release slowly slide down his skin—thick drops trailing along the curve of his hip, pooling slightly in the dip between his abs. you swiped your fingers through it, sticky and warm, then brought them to your lips and licked him clean, deliberately slow—letting him see it.
he groaned, eyes fluttering shut like he was about to fall apart all over again.
“…did you… retain any of that?” he asked between gasps, voice wrecked.
you laughed softly, “not entirely, tell me tomorrow—i want to learn.” and honestly you had, for whatever interested bob in its own way interested you.
you crawled up beside him, tugging the throw blanket from the back of the couch to wipe your hands, still warm and shaking from the intensity. bob curled into you, heavy and loose with post-orgasmic bliss. his head rested against your chest like it belonged there.
outside, the rain hadn’t stopped.
and in the space between seconds — the quiet hum of a god drifting into sleep — the world felt almost safe.
do u have any like nsfw hcs about walker too 😪 your bob stuff is great and primarily what im here for but now im thinking
he fucks like someone trying to win a medal for it.
like everything he’s doing—every thrust, every grip of your hip, every filthy word spat through clenched teeth—is another performance. another mission. and underneath it? there’s a hunger he doesn’t know what to do with.
you notice it early on.
how touch-starved he is without even realizing. how he jolts—visibly—when you first run your hand over his lower stomach, just under the edge of the suit. how he always seems to be bracing for disappointment before you even open your mouth.
and then you praise him.
“you’re doing so good for me, john.”
that is when he breaks. because that’s the kink he’s never been able to admit to—not even to himself.
being told he’s good. being enough. being held down or ridden hard or fed praise like water in a desert. that kind of tenderness short-circuits him. it cuts deeper than the rough stuff ever could.
he doesn’t start off submissive—not in the traditional sense. he’s used to being in control, to leading with physical dominance.
he’ll pin you fast, growl commands in your ear, fuck you face-down on the bed like he’s trying to pound all the doubt out of himself.
and god, is he strong.
the serum didn’t just heighten his strength. it amplified everything—libido included.
he gets hard constantly. it’s frustrating to him, how often he’s thinking about you. the way your thighs look when you’re relaxed. the little gasps you make when he brushes his hand too low. the smell of you when you sweat.
he’ll get half-hard just from hearing your voice over comms.
by the time he gets his hands on you, it’s like something inside him’s been uncaged.
but once you learn what makes him tick?
once you figure out how to press your mouth to his ear and say things like—
“my handsome soldier.”
“you’re so good when you listen.”
“let me take care of you, john.”
—he melts.
he can go from snarling dominance to needy, stuttering mess if you ride the edge of his control the right way.
like, he’ll try to stay in control.
he’ll growl that he’s not going to come yet.
he’ll promise he’s in charge—
and then you moan, call him a good boy, and suddenly he’s gasping out, “fuck, baby—please—,” hips bucking like he’s never been fucked before.
and don’t even get him started on oral.
he’ll fist the sheets, groaning with your mouth around him. he can’t decide if he wants to shove your head down or beg you not to stop.
he doesn’t always say it, but he needs to be wanted.
he gets off on your hunger for him.
some nights, he’s the one guiding you by the hips, whispering how much he missed your pussy, how tight you are, how he wants to fill you up till you’re leaking down your thighs.
other nights, he’s sitting back against the headboard, wide-eyed and flushed, letting you straddle him and fuck yourself on his cock like he’s yours.
and that serum-high libido?
it makes him insatiable.
multiple rounds. sometimes he doesn’t even need recovery time.
he’ll be half-hard again just watching his cum drip out of you.
he’ll pant against your chest, still inside you, voice hoarse as he mutters, “one more. just… just one more.”
he has a thing for being teased, too.
edging.
you cupping him through his pants, dragging it out until he’s growling through gritted teeth, fucking into your hand like he’s about to lose it.
he hates it—until you say:
“that’s it, john. just like that. you’re doing so good for me.”
he’s coming in your palm like a virgin, flushed pink to the tips of his ears, thighs twitching under your grip.
he tries to act like it’s just stress relief. just a way to blow off steam.
but the second your hand goes to his hair, your voice softens, your mouth brushes his ear—
he’s begging, not with words. but with his body.
with the way his hips buck up. with the way he follows your every touch like it’s orders.
heavy, heavy breeding kink as well. he's so mean with it too, pinning you down and using you.
and he always—always—asks afterward:
“was that good?”
even when he’s just left you a mess of slick and bite marks and come. he still needs to hear it. needs you to tell him he’s good. because he is.
but he won’t believe it until it’s coming from your mouth—voice raw, eyes half-lidded, wrecked and whispering it into the curve of his neck.
omggg the walker headcanons were so good 😚 he would be so into face sitting too
walker is definitely a thigh guy, so he quite literally cannot think of anything better than you suffocating him with them.
it starts with his hands on them—always. thumbs brushing over the inner seam of your jeans, teeth tugging the soft skin just above your knees. and god forbid you wear shorts around him, because he’s impossible to shake once he’s got a taste.
but what really undoes him is the weight. the pressure.
you sitting on his face—not delicately, not “perched” like you’re doing him a favor. he wants the full weight. wants to feel you press down until his nose is buried, breath caught, brain gone.
he acts cocky at first—spreads his arms behind his head like it’s nothing, biceps flexing, the smirk on his lips just a little too self-satisfied.
“go on, sweetheart,” he says, tongue swiping slow across his bottom lip. “i can take it.”
you barely ease down and he’s already groaning into you—low, guttural—hands shooting up to grip your thighs hard, like he needs to ground himself or lose it entirely. his fingers dig into the meat of them, dragging you down until his nose is pressed flush, beard scratching soft skin, eyes fluttering shut like he’s home.
he eats you out too well. dangerously well.
like he’s trained for it—tongue moving in deep, steady strokes that make your stomach flip, lips parting around your clit like he’s worshiping it. the stubble of his beard scrapes raw, leaves you red and shaking, and the praise slips from your mouth like instinct, breathless and unfiltered.
he likes to suffer. just a little.
he craves the burn in his lungs, the way your thighs press tight around his head like a vice, the way you twitch against his mouth when he sucks just a little harder. he gets sloppy with it, tongue flattening, moaning into you with pure hunger—and when you try to lift off, even just a little, he groans against your cunt and yanks you back down.
“sit the fuck down—please?”
and god—he gets off on it. really gets off.
there’ve been nights he’s come untouched, hips rutting into the sheets beneath him, panting into your pussy while you ride his face. he moans like it’s the only thing that’ll save him, like the taste of you is rewiring his brain.
and the praise kink? brutal.
you tell him he’s good, that he’s making you feel so fucking full just from his mouth, and he whimpers—actually whimpers—beneath you, hands trembling where they clutch your thighs.
by the end he’s glassy-eyed, chest heaving, beard soaked in slick.
his eyes are unfocused, mouth slightly parted like he’s seen god.
┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: your friendship with john is put on the line after you’re injured during a mission — what follows is something neither of you can anticipate.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 13.0K.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), friends to lovers, angst, jealous & angry john, descriptions of violence & injuries, wound tending trope, talks of insecurities, “she fell first but he fell harder”, confession of feelings, john is emotionally constipated, extreme levels of yearning, john’s praise kink, grinding, dry humping, dirty talk, making out, biting, hair pulling, fingering (fem!rec), handjob, mutual orgasm. aftercare.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this is a pretty big fic (sorry not sorry) and I worked really hard on it! I really hope that you guys enjoy, a lot of time & effort went into it! Thank you guys for your support! 🫶
John Walker doesn’t understand how to handle vulnerability.
He comes close, teetering along the edge in soft-spoken conversation through the early hours of morning, or in the aftermath of a particularly rough and arduous mission.
Validation was something he subconsciously craved, the desire to feel wanted, to feel as if he was greater than the sum of his parts. Losing his rank in the military and losing Captain America screamed inadequacy; he was learning to be better.
In that journey, somewhere, he found himself getting closer with you. It often manifested in the form of teasing and sarcastic jabs, banter to keep things light, but as months ticked by, he found himself opening up.
Vulnerability strikes fear into him, greater than that of a weapon being waved in his face, or thrown into any warzone.
There’s something effortless he’s found within you, something comfortable, and that scares him. It’s kept him distanced, watching from afar, attempting to keep you at-bay, knowing the consequences of what could happen if he let himself get attached.
Everyone who gets close to him always loses — Lemar lost his life, Olivia lost a partner, his son lost a father. John had come to the realization that he didn’t want to lose you, too.
On more than one occasion, you catch glimpses of a shattered man who’s still picking up the pieces, directionless; a man who’s trying to do good, but still can’t quite get it right.
It wasn’t easy, befriending him — his cocksure smirk and arrogance often warded away others, but you, in all of your optimism, had waded through without complaint.
He’s militant, rigorous, rough; though, you’ve managed to dig just beneath the surface, where a softer man resides. He’s known for sharing, for being zealously overprotective, and for his dry, sardonic humor.
It doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone on the team when your feelings are revealed.
The both of you are two halves to a whole, lamenting to a buried and burning flame, continuing to dance around one another.
Unbeknownst to either of you, the feelings are there, and it’s powerful — you want him, he wants you.
Admittedly, you felt that it was glaringly one-sided, you liking him; you assumed it’d be unrequited for the rest of your days. The more he began to keep you at a distance, the more accepting you became of the outcome.
On the quinjet, it’s hushed with preparation, the deep breath before the plunge. The mission is somewhere oceanic, aboard a hijacked S.H.I.E.L.D helicarrier swarming with mercenaries and thieves.
The darker realm of espionage, violence, and deception is somewhat newer to you. Before being inducted into the New Avengers, you were scouted by Valentina for your abilities, avoiding time in The Raft for something you didn’t do.
Now, it all feels strange — you’re traveling the world, you’re helping people, you’re a hero.
“You’ll drop in here,” Bucky’s brows are furrowed together, a visage of stoic calm, adopting more of a leadership role. He’d run thousands of missions, dismantled armies — none of this was unusual for him. “With Walker.”
Strapped into his webbed jump-seat, John bristles at the mention of his name, and yours. He gets heated before a mission, as if he’s working himself up, noticeably coiled like some predator waiting in the wings.
There’s a visible tension in his jaw, a weight in his shoulders, white-knuckling his still-bent shield as if it’s a vice. He isn’t nervous — just impatient, ready to get the job over with.
“Say we drop in, and it’s compromised,” With a low hum, you point to the scanned layout of the helicarrier, attempting to discern a backup plan. “What should we do?” It’s a fair question, and you’re worried about the specifics.
“Double back to here, and wait for Ava to clear the path to you,” Bucky affirms, peering at Walker, who’s partially tuned-in, partially brooding. “If all goes according to plan, you shouldn’t have to rely on the backup position.”
Bucky’s close to you; too close.
John catches it in heated glances, countenance riddled with the face of jealousy’s ire, blonde brows pinched together. Unfortunately, he doesn’t mask anything well, letting his sentiments reveal themselves, rear their ugly head.
Shoulder-to-shoulder, you’re leaning in; for you, it’s an involuntary thing. Bucky’s similar to an older brother figure, offering a sense of comfort when things seem to be too much.
Though, John doesn’t see it that way; all he sees is Barnes invading your space as if it belongs to him, and you’re none the wiser.
His abdomen twists into knots, as if he’s swallowing his rage, only to make room for misery.
John Walker doesn’t understand how to handle his own affections, either.
It was simple for him to pinpoint when exactly he realized he’d liked you, too. A few months back, he’d gotten sick with frustration, toiling over Olivia moving on, finding someone else. He couldn’t blame her after everything, but the fury hadn’t subsided.
Instead, he was left raw, with this amalgamation of emotions that had twisted into some catalyst, a maelstrom of everything he’d done wrong in life.
Through this tide of navigating newfound feelings, there were plenty of moments where he’d wanted to get closer.
John thought about it often; draping a blanket over your shoulder when you’d fallen asleep in the common room, hands brushing when you’d reached for the same object, bodies ghosting over another during training sessions, his lingering stares when he thought no one else was watching.
There you were, staying up with him into the early hours of morning, before dawn’s first scrap of light could pierce the black horizon. He thought about that night more times than he could count — he thought about how much you cared, how kind you were.
It was more than he deserved, admittedly. Without a shadow of a doubt, John knew that he didn’t deserve to have you in his life, let alone like you. Things were less complicated when he kept you distanced, even if it felt completely wrong.
He figured that you getting with Bucky was his punishment for fumbling your friendship and isolating you, avoiding you. Nothing hurt worse than seeing the look in your eyes whenever he dismissed you, or kept you at arm’s length.
Then again, he didn’t want to see your blood on his hands, or have to stomach the sight of your body if he messed up, or if he let you get too close.
If he wasn’t fast enough, strong enough, good enough to protect you — he didn’t want you to end up like Lemar.
Between Bucky droning on about the mission at-hand and Alexei attempting to give some inspirational speech, your eyes find John, brows furrowing together.
There’s an established familiarity, one strong enough for you to know that he’s upset about something, frustrated. He’s not as adept at concealing his emotions as he thinks he is; whatever he’s going through, it’s branded into his countenance.
As Bucky prepares for landing on the far side of the helicarrier, John’s forlorn stare is attempting to sear through the metal walls of the jet’s interior. He seems gone, as if his mind is a thousand miles away — somewhere else entirely.
For the past month or two, he’s pushed you away, shut you out as if he’s slammed a door in your face. It stings even still, an embittered thing, and you’re left to wonder why.
You were friends, closer to him than the rest of the team, much to everyone’s amazement. Something doesn’t feel right whenever you look at him, as if he’s dragging around a weight, unwilling to let anyone else shoulder the burden.
Your feelings for him seem to complicate everything.
Quiet, you decide to sit in the jumpseat beside him, buckling yourself in, pondering how to broach the tenuous silence that lingers between you. Before, he might’ve said something insolent or made a sarcastic remark; instead, you’re met with nothing.
“When we drop in, should w—” Before you can rationally discuss tactics, John interjects.
He cuts you off, as sharp as a blade. “When we drop, you stay on my flank and don’t engage unless I tell you to.” John gruffs, uncharacteristically quipped with you, and everyone else seems to notice, too.
Startled, you’re mildly taken aback, left confused as to why he’s treating you like this. You aren’t prone to outbursts or snapping back with the same cutthroat demeanor, resorting to a sullen silence.
Yelena grimaces, nose wrinkling in a thinly-veiled disdain. “Walker, relax. She is just trying to help.” She murmurs, still attempting to work around her twinge of uncertainty about him.
John’s haughty gaze floats toward Yelena, as if he’s winding up to say something callous. Instead, the words seem to turn to ash, retort buried somewhere in the depths of his throat.
The jet tremors violently as it descends onto the helipad, the noise scraping against your ears, a sound that’s still jarring to you. John remains unphased — he’s done this hundreds of times, terse as the hull begins to open.
“Ready?” Bucky calls over the comms, quinjet descending through darkness, making a quick flight for the small helipad toward the back of the vessel.
As the hull opens, you’re quick to clamor behind John, who’s often barreling first into danger without blinking an eye. The two of you jump first, and it’s a shorter fall to the helicarrier’s landing zone, tucking and rolling as you make it down.
Swallowed by darkness, the only light happens to be the glow from various posts scattered around the area, making it difficult for you to follow his silhouette. For a man of his size, he moves quickly, enhanced by the super-soldier serum.
To your relief, your drop point isn’t compromised, not swarming with mercenaries as you thought it’d be. John takes two of them out with ease, leaving you to rush to catch up, scrambling after him as best as you can.
“Slow down, John.” You urge, watching as his shoulder rolls, head twitching as he draws his pistol. It was a waiting game, now; letting the others secure their portions of the ship and make their way forward.
“Watch my flank,” Flat, John knows that no one is likely to ambush from behind, given your location. It gives you something to do, something to distract so he can keep you pinned behind him. “That’s all you need to do.”
“I can’t do that if you’re rushing into this,” With an urgent protest, you keep watch nonetheless, eyes peeled through the darkness for any unforeseen threats. “If something happens, I don’t know if I can react in-time …”
With your powers, you’re still adjusting — it’s a constant work in-progress, testing the limits, trying to see how much you can handle. Telekinesis is nothing menial, however, you’re struggling to fully grasp the boundaries of your abilities.
“Stay behind me.” John barks, cadence akin to an angry drill sergeant instead of your teammate, your friend.
Emotions run high in the wake of his sharp tone, and you’re inclined to react, hopelessly lost as to why he’s upset with you.
“What’s wrong?” Bad time to ask, but you can’t help it anymore. “John, we’re friends. I know that something is making you frustrated.” Your poignant line of questioning invokes his scorn as he turns around, pushing you into the wall of a shipping container.
He isn’t rough, but it’s done with urgency as you narrowly avoid the prying barrel of a rifle, armed with a flashlight attachment. With bated breath, he waits for it to pass, firmly keeping an arm on your waist, caging you against cool metal.
Looking as if he’s on the verge of succumbing to rage, his nostrils flare, jaw locked as he directs his wave of anguish onto you. It’s everything, all at once — his jealousy, his anger, his feelings for you and unwillingness to act.
“We’re not doing this.” He grits, and it’s a command, not a suggestion. His voice is low, pitched with something indiscernible, and you can taste the anguish that wafts from him in hot waves.
Conceding, you appear as if you’ve been struck, wilting beneath his sharp tongue, succumbing to the blade he sinks into you. “I’m sorry — I won’t ask anymore.” Firm, your words ring in his ears; he’s guilty.
Silent, you gently step away from his grasp as if he’s burned you alive, skin stinging where he kept his hand on your waist. Deciding to focus on the mission at-hand, you leave your affections there, for now.
John’s gaze shifts toward the ground, brows pinching together, countenance warping into a mask of frustration. He’s angry with himself, above all; he hates that he’s doing this to you.
Armed mercenaries patrol the open spaces of the main deck, guarding crates of illegal weapons smuggled from various battles. There’s supposed Chitauri equipment inside, Asgardian, remnants of S.H.I.E.L.D and H.Y.D.R.A, too.
It’s easier to follow his lead, his experience far outweighing yours as he moves to find some level of cover. “We’ll make for that wall,” John murmurs, motioning toward a divot of sleek steel, several feet to your left. “Go on my mark.”
The vessel groans, shockwaves pulsing beneath your feet as an explosion fires off in the distance, a large chunk of the command center blown apart. You’re quick on the comms, pressing a button that’s built into your suit.
“Was that us or them?” You question, watching as an eruption of fire consumes the deck. John winces, moderately impressed as the both of you hang back, waiting for the right opportunity to push ahead.
“I had to improvise — you can all thank me later.” Ava’s voice reverberates over the comms, and you can envision her smirk through it all. As the mercenaries scramble to move shipments away from the blast, John’s ready to move.
As he hops over the short, concrete barrier, a sudden click hisses behind you. Every nerve in your body seems to freeze, recognizing the noise as the safety of a gun being unlatched.
“Don’t move.”
Three mercenaries stand behind you, rifles drawn, blasting columns of light into your eyes. You’re like a deer in the headlights, brain wracking, scrambling to try and figure something out.
John acts quickly, throwing his bent hunk of metal at one of them, gun clattering from his hands as he draws his pistol. He huffs like a bull when he fights, body pumping with adrenaline, jaw locked as if it might shatter.
He’s primal when he’s dismantling his opposition; smooth, experienced, and hotheaded. When it comes to morally bankrupt mercenaries, he doesn’t pull a single punch, moving like some barricade of brawny muscle.
You’re trying to disarm the second with your powers, though it’s faltering, exceedingly difficult to concentrate. Between the poor lighting, John’s agility, and your scrambled psyche, you come up empty-handed.
In the midst of the scuffle, you notice a rifle being aimed at John. It’s as if your powers know when to bleed through, as you shove him away with a pulse of your mind. He stumbles, flails, and loses his balance.
Though, it’s momentary, just enough to be a distraction so John didn’t get hurt. It’s difficult to distinguish what’s happening through the dark, save for the lights strapped to the end of rifle barrels.
The mercenary that you’d tossed to the ground is getting back up, angry.
Instead of attempting to use your abilities again, you resort to throwing a wrench at him. Before you can follow through on your movement, a gunshot rings out — and it’s not John who gets hurt.
Something sharp and piercing penetrates through your suit, slicing through thin kevlar, going right into your abdomen, somewhere on the right side of your ribcage. Agony blossoms over you, like tendrils of a scorching heat blistering over your skin.
The bullet whistles clean through, exiting with more bite and tear than how it entered. You’ve never been shot before — maimed and bruised, perhaps, but nothing grievous like this.
The wind ripped from your lungs, as if someone had stolen every scrap of air from you. It was all shock, burning and burning still, before you collapsed in a heap, hand immediately clutching at your ribs.
John’s still roughing up the remainder of the mercenaries without a shred of mercy, and once they are grounded, no longer a threat, he sees you.
It feels like he’s in Latvia again — feels like yesterday, the suffering too raw and too visceral, as if he’s reliving the memory. Time slows to a crawl, his heart nearly bursting from his chest.
Crimson begins to flourish through the fabric of your bodice, wet and hot, but you’re beginning to feel dizzy. Everything is spinning, and fear begins to settle, you’re scared. You don’t know if you were hit somewhere critical.
“John?” You croak, feeling something firm catch you before your head can knock against the concrete.
He’s not there, he’s trapped in a nightmare; reality settles in with its bitter sting and cruelty when he feels your blood on his fingertips.
“Hey, hey, stay with me,” John’s clinging onto you, shield slung on his back, cradling you in his arms, trying to get you to stay alert. “Shit, come on — She’s hit! Bucky, I’ve — She’s down!” He sounds as if he’s speaking in half-sentences, babbling and broken.
A haze forms at the fringes of your vision, blurry, and that’s when the pain begins to surge, like a hot iron being dug into your flesh. A cry of torment rips through your diaphragm, every breath feeling labored, as if you’re heaving.
He’s carried men from the trenches of war torn countries, he’s saved hostages, he’s dragged barely-conscious bodies through the desert.
Nothing could’ve prepared John for this, for you laying bleeding in his arms, latching onto him, startled and in unimaginable pain. Any sliver of calm has left him, replaced with anguish, with panic, with an amalgamation of emotions.
“You’re gonna be fine,” John chokes, attempting to calm you and himself, but nothing is working. “Gonna be okay, just — Hey, just focus on me.” He’s lifting you into his arms, knowing that it might make things worse, but he’s got to get you somewhere safe.
The trauma he carries with him still seems to split open like a dam, bringing with it an overwhelming sense of anguish, of suffering. John is suffocating beneath the weight of it all, and in that darkness, he’s scared of losing you.
He should’ve told you how he felt, he shouldn’t have pushed you away, should’ve been a better man — should’ve been stronger, faster.
John feels like he’s drowning, swept away within a riptide, an unforgiving current that’s threatening to wash him away. He wonders if that’s what he deserves — erased, to slip away and let the world forget.
When he feels you gripping his arm like a vice, those feelings begin to disappear. “J—John,” You stammer, voice hoarse, thick with turmoil as you cringe at the pain. “Don’t go anywhere, please.” Able to get out a string of words, your consciousness begins to waver.
“I’m right here,” John’s stoic cadence warbles, wrought with the thickness of emotion as he tries to stay calm for you. He’s trying to pull you to safety, get you onto the quinjet, holding you firm to his chest. “Stay awake, stay with me.”
“Walker, what’s your location?” Bucky doesn’t sound nearly as panicked as John, but there’s a terse edge to his voice, something coiled.
Another explosion shakes the deck, and he nearly barrels over, keeping his footing firm to avoid losing his grip on you. You’re threading along the fringes of consciousness, gaze half-lidded, visage drawn up into one of discomfort.
“Drop point,” John shouts over the comms, petrified, something fearful in his voice, which happens to crack at the end. “She’s hit bad, you need to get here now!”
Struggling to keep yourself afloat, your grasp is weakening, anchored to the front of his body armor like a tether to reality. “M’okay,” You slur, your voice little more than a murmur. “Still here.” It’s mostly to placate John, who’s looking completely lost.
Panicked, cerulean hues stare at you through the dark, holding steadfastly to you as the quinjet descends a few feet away. John moves, trying to avoid jostling you around as the hull begins to open.
“I got you, I got you.” John’s chanting it to himself like some mantra, noticing the glazed look in your eyes. Tendrils of burning agony continue to plume through your abdomen, blood warm, oozing from your wound.
In the back of the quinjet, there’s several crates of items stolen from the helicarrier, one of which Valentina had specifically asked for. The rest of the team is there, and Yelena moves to the edge, helping the both of you in.
Everyone becomes blurry, hovering around you, but you can’t see faces. You hear John more than the rest — he’s angry. “Put pressure on the wound,” He barks, feeling his hand shakily smooth over your crown. “Bucky, you need to hurry!”
Bucky’s reply is indiscernible, but you can only assume that he’s attempting to console John from the pilot’s cockpit. John says something back, sharp, like a dog that’s biting at a handler.
Voices begin to drown away, as if it’s all become mere background noise, a dismal hum. Consciousness wanes, bleeding away at the edges, and your grip on John’s chest falls slack.
All at once, everything fades to black.
Dizzying, blanched light pools around your peripheral when you finally rouse from unconsciousness, and the agony that’s festering in your ribs has become a dull, incessant ache.
A sharp inhale pierces your lungs as you attempt to gather your bearings, and you feel something soft, cushioned beneath you. The Watchtower’s medbay is stark and glittering, a newer addition that’s seen some use.
Beneath your brow, your head throbs something awful, and as the grogginess begins to wear off, your surroundings become crystalline. Everything seems too sterile, too sanitized.
Tangled in pale hospital sheets, you glance to your left — nothing, empty; save for the other medical beds and metallic fixtures.
It’s what’s on your right side that startles you.
John is slumped in a chair, half-dressed in his suit, navy-blue compression shirt clinging to his musculature. He’s dozing off, head tilted back along the seat’s rim, chest rising and falling with shallow, steady breaths.
Blonde tresses are disheveled, glistening with a layer of dampness; he must’ve taken a shower. There’s a yellowing bruise behind his left ear, countenance grizzled with his beard, noticeably rugged.
Something wet clings to your ribs, prompting you to pull up the hem of your shirt to find a cluster of gauze and bandages wrapped over your wound. Dried crimson stains the linen, but in much smaller amounts than before.
Inevitably, your gaze shifts back to John, whose visage seems less anguished when he’s resting. His brows are still furrowed, but there’s a prominent lack of frustration present.
He was painfully handsome; you always found him attractive, but it’s enhanced when he’s simply existing. Part of you wonders how long he’s been sitting here for — how long you’ve been bedridden.
In his lap, he’s got one of your sweatshirts, which is a peculiar sight, one that makes you curl with warmth. Gooseflesh courses over your spine, a shiver following after as you shift against the mattress.
Swinging your legs out from underneath your sheets, you attempt to stand, wobbling slightly as you find your footing. The tile is blisteringly cold beneath your heels, and you feel jabs of a throbbing ache spread through your side.
The bed creaks, a faint metallic grinding that reverberates throughout the room. Before you can quietly creep from the mattress, John is stirring in the chair beside you.
“What are you doing?” It’s the first question he asks, tone clipped, as if you’re doing something wrong. Running a hand over his face, he lets out a soft grunt, readjusting to his surroundings.
“Getting something to drink,” Through a hoarse croak, you swallow, attempting to quench the dryness that burns in your throat. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”
“I’ll get it,” John murmurs, aloof as he stands from the chair with a low groan. Muscles are sore, bone-deep from the mission, but he knows that he’ll endure. “You sit back down.” His command is noticeably gentle.
“Thank you,” With a smile, you shuffle back into bed, nonplussed by the ripples of slight pain. Admittedly, you weren’t expecting the wound to feel so light; it’s only aching. “How long have I been out?”
Striding toward the sink, John fills up a glass of water, sleeves of his shirt rolled toward his elbows. Corded muscle wraps taut around his forearms, dusted with blonde hair and a myriad of scrapes and bruises.
“Twelve hours, give or take,” His bedside manners are surprisingly intact, more than you thought possible. He’s avoided you so much lately that having him back feels nice. “Might need to change your dressing.”
Quiet, your hand falls to your ribs, fingertips lightly flicking over the gauze, over tufts of white. “Have you been here the whole time?” Your tone was gentle, tender; everything seemed to crawl to a low hum.
Through terse shoulders and a brief sigh, John answered you. “Bucky came by a little while ago,” He murmured, returning to you with a glass of freezing water. “Yelena, too.”
He didn’t answer your question fully, which didn’t go unnoticed. With a nod, you took several greedy swigs of water, your throat soothed by cool liquid, adjusting your position.
“I didn’t ask about Bucky or Yelena,” Clicking your tongue, your gaze shifts to John, almost pleading with him for some semblance of truth. “Thank you for staying with me.” Maintaining a cordial smile, you placed the glass aside.
John nodded, a subtle gesture that held more meaning than he let on. A silence settled between, more uncomfortable than tranquil, prompting him to rifle around for medical supplies.
Basic first aid was ingrained into him, but there was some wariness he felt with patching you up. It was all closeness, a growing intimacy that made his bones blister.
He liked you so much, wanted you so terribly that it began to gnaw away at him — and he felt entirely undeserving.
Bruises dust his knuckles, hands visibly rattling with a subtle tremor. He’s steady when he fights — assured, confident, lethal.
With you, in the gentle silence and unspoken feelings, he starts to feel the pressure mounting, the nerves.
“Should be healed in a few weeks,” John murmurs, stepping towards the edge of the mattress, subtly gesturing for you to move closer. “You got hit at close-range.” He says it as if it’s a painful memory.
Memories float at the fringes of your mind, and what you remember most is John; he never once left your side, toiling over you, and the panic. The mortifying fear in his eyes was something you remembered the most.
“It doesn’t feel that bad.” With a shrug, you move toward the edge, swinging your legs over the side. Awkwardness sweeps in as you lift your shirt, shy beneath his stare, which is unusually warm.
John swallows, jaw ticking, knuckles white as he clutches the roll of gauze. When you lift your shirt, there’s a blotch of dark crimson, nothing too severe, but he’s left feeling guilty.
He told you to cover his flank, and you were ambushed — he should’ve known better. Cerulean hues settle over your wound, brows furrowing before he reaches down to unravel the soiled bandages.
Calloused fingertips brush over bare flesh, and the both of you shiver as if you’ve been electrified. Gooseflesh follows in a wave, snaking over your flesh, causing you to clear your throat to relieve a sliver of tension.
He’s standing between your legs, broad musculature creating something of a gap, staring down at you with an indiscernible gleam. The closeness is sudden, exhilarating; you can feel the heat wafting from his body.
“You’ve been really distant lately,” It’s quiet, your observation; your cadence lacks any real malice, only perturbation. “I miss our friendship.” Sullen, your confession makes him inhale, a sharp and poignant sound that splits his lungs.
John distracts himself by prying your old linens aside, tossing them onto a metal tray that sits beside your bed. “Yeah,” He knows it’s his fault. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.” A partial truth, but it’s better than fibbing to you outright.
He’s jealous, he’s angry, he’s riddled with guilt.
It’s an amalgamation of everything negative, of everything sour and rotten that sits inside of him, burning a hole right through. John knows that he isn’t a stellar example of a man, but he’s trying to do good. He wants to do right by you.
“How long will it take for you to realize that I’m here for you? That I can handle the truth, no matter how ugly it is?” Even then, you never raise your voice, sitting soundly as John inspects your stitches, countenance pinched together.
“I don’t want to get in the way.” He grits, and he fights the urge to sound disgustingly bitter. Jealousy is an emotion he doesn’t handle well, something volatile; anger, too.
Bewildered, you wince when he dabs antiseptics against your agitated flesh, and he’s swift to apologize. A soft groan of discomfort slips past your mouth, teeth clenching.
“Sorry,” John soothes, blonde brows creased together, his visage one of immediate apology as his hand recoils. “I’m sorry.” He huffs, flesh crawling when he realizes he accidentally hurt you.
Bruised knuckles graze over your abdomen, as if he’s offering another apology through touch alone. The sensation makes you quiver, digits tensing into the pale sheets beneath you.
“It’s alright,” With a smile, your gaze flutters toward his hands again, mapping every bruise, scrape, scar — you notice the slight tremor again. “You’re good at this.” You remark, attempting to placate him.
With a sardonic chuckle, John makes a face, as if he’s in a state of mild disbelief. “Not really.” He counters, gruff, gently cleaning your wound, eyes traveling over your features. You’re so beautiful, and it makes him nervous.
“Take a compliment, John.” There’s a softer lilt to your tone, one that eases the coiled frustration that carries in his shoulders. The smile you give him is saccharine, the sweetest thing he’s ever seen.
Writhing around, your movement makes it increasingly difficult for him to steady the gauze over your wound. “Stop moving.” He quips, as if he’s reverting back to being in some perpetual state of frustration.
Nodding, you mumble an apology, allowing him to thread the linen around your torso. He ensured that he was exceedingly gentle when it came to the flesh around your wound.
There’s a beat of silence, one that stretches on for too long, causing you to break it with a question. “Why do you think you’re getting in the way?” Your inquiry takes him by surprise.
“What?” John plays dumb, knowing that he shouldn’t have said anything. You’re often too curious, but you care — you care so deeply for him, and it’s written on your face.
“You said that you didn’t want to get in the way,” Trying again, your brows crease together, chin jutting forward as you maintain a steady stare. “I’m not sure what you’re getting in the way of.”
Cornering him, John doesn’t know what to say — maybe he needed to say it, to get it out in the open. If you acknowledged your relationship with Bucky, maybe it would be what he needed to try and move on from his feelings for you.
His jaw is tight, unnaturally so; the muscle might snap into two from how hard he’s clenching. With a stinging inhale, he decides to broach the subject with a blunt tone, but the bitterness sits heavy.
“You and Barnes.” John grits, hearing the startled gasp that escapes your mouth. Judging from your expression, this came as a surprise to you.
He’s jealous — the realization hits you all at once, and everything begins to slowly click into place. The indifference, the avoidance, the sudden bite of frustration — he thinks you’re with Bucky. It couldn’t have been further from the truth.
“John,” Bewildered, you attempt to refute his claim, but he’s interjecting, as if his mouth is flying before his brain has time to catch up. “That’s not …”
“Wish you would’ve told me.” He grouses, even though it isn’t remotely close to the truth. The distance between bodies is nearly nonexistent, and you’re face-to-face with his sternum, feeling his fingers ghost beside your thigh.
“I don’t like Bucky,” You mumble, which visibly catches him off-guard. “I’ve never viewed him as anything more than a brother, and he feels the same way.” Once that’s out in the open, John feels incredibly stupid.
Dumbfounded, his countenance contorts from a thinly-veiled frustration to something forlorn, and then he realizes how blind he’s been. He’s been punishing you for something you had no part in, keeping away because he thought it best.
Through a tight throat and dry mouth, you know then and there that you want to tell him — tell him everything. Your feelings are overwhelming in the heat of the moment, coercing you into a confession.
“I don’t like Bucky because I like you,” In one tremulous exhale, you say it, let it slip into the gap of silence and sit with it. “I wish you’d stop pushing me away.” Through a whisper, you try to slow your breathing, but it’s quick.
John freezes, blonde lashes fluttering as he attempts to register what you said. There’s a sense of disbelief that accompanies the shock, but it dissipates when he looks at you.
It’s love he sees, a tender affection that doesn’t scorn his past or see the facade — you see him, and that’s what matters most. “I don’t think I’m good enough for you.” He says it through a throttled neck, cadence thick with anguish.
“That’s not true,” Insistent, you reach for his arm, digits cold over his flesh, like kisses of ice. “John, when I look at you, I don’t see your mistakes. I just see you, and I like the man that I see.”
The blood on his hands feels heavy, like some anchor dragging him down. After being stripped of the role of Captain America, of everything, spiraling, losing his family, he briefly considered it — a way out.
He was glad that he never went through with it; he found you somewhere along the way, and that was more important to him than anything else. There’s still part of him that hates himself — but he’s healing, he’s making room for you.
John shakes his head, nostrils flaring. “This is my fault,” He gruffs, brows pinched together. “Shouldn’t have told you to watch my flank. You wouldn’t be here right now, you’d be —”
“Stop it,” Before he can spiral into an infinite cycle of self-blame, you interject, ensuring that he doesn’t rake himself over the coals for this. “You can’t predict the outcome. You didn’t know we’d get ambushed.”
“But I should’ve known,” John snarls, malice not directed at you; it’s inward, and he’s crawling with fury toward himself. “I’m better than that. If I’m not, if I lose you …” He huffs, shoulders tight with tension.
“You didn’t. I’m right here, I’m fine — John, look at me,” Through a tender utterance, you coax him into meeting your gaze, breath hitching. He’s staring at you with the look of love. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Hushed, his head jostles in a nod of acknowledgment, opting to take your words to heart, even if the guilt still lingers. One hand holds your hip, thumb tracing circles over your exposed flesh, keeping you close to him.
“You’re too good,” John utters, knuckles dragging along the underside of your jaw, the gesture making your breath hitch within your throat. “I don’t understand how you do it.” A brief huff sticks in the back of his throat.
“I’m not perfect, John — nobody is,” All of you wants all of him; imperfections, flaws, heart — everything matters to you. “What I do know is that I’m tired of going on like this, tired of not being with you.”
Crimson snakes over his features, an incessant heat that consumes him like wildfire. He’s tired of it too, pretending like he doesn’t want you. He cups your jaw, palm rough like leather, thumb smoothing over your cheek.
“I think you’re perfect,” He whispers, reverent as he gazes longingly at you, heart aching so bad that it produces a dull throbbing within his chest. “You’ve got me.” John confirms with a sense of finality, foreheads ghosting over one another.
John doesn’t fully trust falling in love after his divorce — but he does it anyway, he keeps falling for you, and falling again.
Beneath your chest, your heart is nearly ripping right from your sternum, threatening to combust as you wait for him to say something. Maybe you’re waiting for the real rejection, or something else — you aren’t sure.
Cerulean hues study the delicate curve of your jaw, sweeping over your mouth; it’s familiar, he’s done it a hundred times whenever you weren’t looking. This time, it carries a certain heaviness, a torrent of feelings finally revealing themselves.
“Can I kiss you?” John rasps, as if he’s a man dying in a desert, desperate for the quench of water. His hands shift to cradle your hips, thumbs circling over your waist.
“Please.” Nearly breathless, you’re nodding, feeling him dip to your level, scratch of his beard prickling against your mouth. It’s a slow kiss, oozing with unbridled affection, the one he’s staved off for so long.
He’s typically rough; a rough mouth, rougher disposition, rough around the edges.
It comes as a surprise when he kisses you as if you’re delicate, something he’s terrified to break. He moves sluggishly, a crawl that only seems to build, the tension rising to steady simmer.
The kiss stretches on without pause, and you’re melting into him. Within the threading limbs and desperate mouths, your heartbeat crescendos, nervous system alert, nerves set ablaze.
It is in your kiss that he finds a semblance of peace, hunger continuing to grow until it becomes some ravenous bite. Mouths ceaselessly collide, wet and fervent, prompting you to reach for his bicep in order to anchor yourself.
Digits thread themselves into his compression shirt, tensing over spandex, involuntarily tugging him closer, distance between bodies now nonexistent. John is caged in around you, withdrawing enough to feel your exhale plume over his lips.
Wordlessly, he’s searching for you to continue, and you do, mouth returning to his own, intimately comfortable. It’s something he’s dreamt about a thousand times — and now, it’s a fantasy made reality.
The kiss deepens, warping into something passionate, embers kindled to a low flame, igniting a wildfire within your belly.
You’re craving his touch, feeling rough palms stroke soothing circles over your hips, grazing bare skin.
He feels safe, a sanctuary that you’re content to dwell within. As if to test the waters, your hand begins to trail from his chest to his shoulder, fingertips dancing upward.
Your palm splays over the nape of his neck, toying with blonde tresses. A low grunt splits through his chest, the kiss beginning to climb with intensity, mouths clamoring, desperate.
Footsteps reverberate somewhere from beyond the medbay, swiftly approaching, which prompts John to untether himself from you. He’s disappointed, stepping away from you with an agitated sound as Bucky lingers in the doorway.
Scarlet clings to John’s neck, a low huff escaping him as Bucky clears his throat. “You’re awake,” He remarks, noticing Walker’s unusual demeanor and your startled expression. “Feeling alright?”
The way you look at Bucky is humorously pointed, as if you’re mildly annoyed by his untimely interruption, and John sees it. You really do look at Bucky as if he’s some pesky older sibling; it’s not the way you look at him.
“I’m just fine,” You assure, hands folded within your lap as you attempt to squash the butterflies floating around in your stomach. The smile you’re wearing is infectious, happy. “John’s been looking after me.”
Bucky doesn’t conceal his smirk, pretending to act innocent, as if he has no clue about anything. You’ve confided in him more than once about your feelings for John — and John’s reluctantly done the same thing.
“Right, I’m sure he has,” Through a flash of pearlescent teeth and a streak of teasing humor, Bucky takes the terse silence as his queue to leave. “There’s pizza, if either of you are hungry.” He offers, leaning off of the doorframe.
John feels as if he’s burning, the back of his neck singed with heat as he peers at Bucky, and there’s a knowing look that passes between. “Thanks, Barnes.” He murmurs, mouth twitching into a brief smile before Bucky wanders off.
When he’s out of your periphery, John sits down next to you, leg-to-leg, hand gently resting over your thigh, thumb tracing circles over soft skin.
There’s a tranquil hush that passes between, the two of you sharing a longing glance. Leaning in, you find your purchase again the bulk of his bicep, firm beneath your cheek.
“I like you, too.” John murmurs, low and rumbling beside your ear, ensnaring your attention without any effort. Admittedly, he knew what he felt for you was stronger, overpowering — he was falling hard, and falling fast.
The bravado and swagger seem nonexistent when he’s alone with you, as if he’s stripped down to the rawest parts of himself, the parts he’s only willing to let you see.
Whatever facade he puts on, whatever barriers he constructed, they drop.
Tucking strands of hair behind your ear, he’s effortlessly charming, oozing with a veiled affection as he leans in to claim your mouth. The kiss is briefer than the one before, and he feels your hand press over his knee.
John can taste the sweetness of your lips, the way that you absentmindedly lean closer, ignoring the wretched ache that pulses through your ribs.
He caresses the small of your back, digits teasing bare flesh, thumbing over your bandages. A shudder passes through you, caught within the labyrinth of his mouth, a maze that you have no desire to escape from.
As if to shatter the moment, your stomach snarls with hunger, and you realize that it’s almost been a full day since you’ve last eaten anything. You reluctantly withdraw, visibly embarrassed as you clear your throat.
“Ruined the moment,” You murmur, but John doesn’t seem bothered, a smirk curling at his mouth, blonde brows lifting in amusement. “Did you mean what you said earlier, about liking me?”
“Yeah,” There’s a sincerity in his tone that you don’t often hear, but he’s genuine; he means what he says. Low, his cadence drops to a lull, timbre wrought with warmth. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.” He murmurs, brows furrowing.
A hitch forms within your throat, an exhilarated sound that he catches between his teeth, visage swirling with a torrent of emotions.
John is a storm — tempestuous, veiled with scars and insecurities, a maelstrom of a man that you’ve learned to navigate. He calms with you, finds a sense of peace in the quiet, and he lets you read his heart.
“What do I do to you?” Barely above a whisper, you’re vexed to know what he means, what feelings have lingered, long repressed. It’s an innocuous question, festering with underlying implications, and he knows this.
A soft huff escapes him, and he smooths a kiss over your brow, easing you off of the mattress. “Think you need to eat first.” John chides, and you don’t pursue his earlier remark, letting him help you onto solid ground.
Flustered, you’re moving together, and he grabs your sweatshirt from the chair, helping you to pull it on over your head to help with the chill.
There aren’t any surprised faces when you and John come to dinner together — and frankly, it was long overdue.
Everyone notices — he sits closer, he’s hovering around you, serving you food as if you’re incapable, smothering a smile when you aren’t looking.
Though, John tries his best to keep it subdued, even if it’s far from the truth.
“She lives! Was so worried about you!” Alexei bellows, caging your upper half in a bear-like hug, his knuckles scratching over your crown. “Ah, but she’s strong, eh? Not even bullet can stop you.” He grinned, prompting you to laugh.
John has the expression of a worried father, jaw terse, twitching when Alexei manhandles you. “Easy,” He warns, afraid of you getting hurt, or something else. “She’s still recovering.”
Ava rolls her eyes, amused by John’s behavior — he’s so in love that it’s sickening to behold. “I’m sure she’ll be fine, Walker.” She mused, feet kicked up onto the arm of the couch, a slice of pizza lodged into one hand.
“Thank you, Alexei.” You smile, patting the Russian’s thick forearm before he releases you. You’re quick to eat, staving off starvation, sating the incessant growl that lurches within your stomach.
When dinner is over and the team disperses, John is nearly attached to your hip; he’d deny it, but it’s glaringly obvious. He’s by your side when he walks you to your room, your gait sluggish as you make it to the door.
“Feeling alright?” John probes, ushering you inside before the thick pane hisses shut behind you. You’re met with a welcoming hush, rubbing the sleeves of your sweatshirt together.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Placating, you clear your throat, shuffling towards your bed. “Do you … Do you want to stay the night here?” The question itself is shy, shrewd. You don’t want to overstep any boundaries, but you don’t want him to leave, either.
John exhales; it’s subtle, hitched with a twinge of exhilaration. He nods, pretending that it’s under the guise of watching over you, but in all actuality, he wants to be close. “Someone’s gotta watch you.” He murmurs, prompting you to smile.
“I think we can be honest with one another,” Your remark carries as you wander toward the bathroom, planning on brushing your teeth until your gums ooze with mint. “It goes beyond that.”
He’s like a watchdog, a protector, trailing after you even when you’re only a few feet away. Lingering in the doorframe, arms loosely folded over his chest, he’s ogling you. “You caught me.” John’s cadence softens, jaw tight.
Admittedly, he hasn’t felt this since Olivia — and even then, they were high school sweethearts. John hadn’t had another partner other than her, he never loved someone like he loved you.
There’s a sliver of awkwardness that accompanies him, as if he’s wading into uncharted territory; thrilling, but it makes him nervous. He doesn’t want to screw anything up with you like he almost did before.
“I like you a lot,” He utters, low and confessing. Toothbrush in-hand, you swivel just enough to face him, doe-eyed, ardent. “I don’t want to screw this up.” John admits, as if it’s painful for him to do so.
Talking about his feelings, being vulnerable — it’s all relatively new for him. Though, he knows that he trusts you wholeheartedly, and he knows that this is how he heals, how he improves.
He wants to be the best that he can be for you.
Smitten, you gaze at him as if he’s everything; he was your friend first, but now, he’s something more. It all feels right, like a puzzle piece slotting into place, and you can’t imagine it differently.
“You won’t, John. We’re in this together.” Reassuring, you flash a tender smile, leaning against the bathroom counter as a brace, lashes fluttering. You have faith in him, believing in him when he scarcely believes in himself.
John’s mouth twitches into a threadbare smile, still observing you as you begin to brush your teeth, using an obscene amount of arctic-mint toothpaste. His nose wrinkles at the sight. “Jesus, bad breath?” He teases.
Through furrowed brows, you’re scrubbing at your teeth as if they’re covered in grime, hastily dragging the bristles over the flat of your tongue. You repeat this pattern longer than what’s considered appropriate before gargling water.
“No, just … If we kiss again, I wanted to make sure that it wasn’t off-putting.” Your admission is one of embarrassment, but he doesn’t seem perturbed in the slightest. It’s the opposite — he’s magnetized by you, instead.
“If?” His head cocks to the left, as if the mere idea of not kissing you is preposterous. Blonde tresses sweep near his temples, disheveled, amusement scrawled onto his features. He swaggers closer, one hand dropping to your hip.
A shaky breath coagulates within the back of your throat, lips parted. “If.” You confirm, but it’s shattered, and he stoops down enough to capture your mouth in a passionate kiss.
A soft whine escapes your mouth, swallowed by your entanglement, lost within his lips. John kisses you gently, pouring his need into it, all of the pent-up affection he’s wanted to give to you.
A calloused hand steadies over your hip, thumb gingerly circling over your hip bone, the other ghosting across the small of your back.
Wedged against his musculature, your hands shift to the nape of his neck, fingertips toying with the blonde tresses there. He’s so warm, extinguishing the prevalent chill that grips your body.
His beard scratches against your mouth, a pleasant prickling that reminds you he’s real, flesh and blood, a beating heart. John exhales; a steady, exaggerated sound, attempting to cling to the fine line of restraint.
A charged passion echoes through the kiss, becoming increasingly heated, the longer you stand and reciprocate. Lips meld together, seamless, as if you’re made for one another.
Everything feels perfect — John’s been wanting this for months, and now that he has it, it’s almost overwhelming.
Snaking beneath the hem of your sweatshirt, his palm finds your bare flesh, caressing circles over the base of your spine. Another sound scrapes from your throat, digits interlocking over the back of his neck.
Each kiss oozes with a fiery want, and the more you entangle yourself into him, the more he wants you.
John is trying to keep things tame, given that your newfound relationship was in its infancy, but he couldn’t help himself.
Reluctant to withdraw, he stops, checking you to see if you’re still comfortable. “Still with me?” He murmurs, body flush against you, firm expanse of his chest brushing over yours.
With a nod, you’re unable to smother your smile, peering up at him through your lashes. Hands wander toward his broad shoulders, and then to his biceps, digits tensing over the muscle there. “Yeah,” You hum. “I’m a little cold.”
“Think I can help with that.” John’s mouth curls into a brief smirk, one that ignites a low fire within your belly. He plants another kiss to your jaw, catching the shudder that fans throughout your body.
You catch a glimpse of that cocksure, smug demeanor that had enticed you so much in the first place, followed by an underlying softness. Behind closed doors, he’s the first to succumb, handling you with a disarming gentleness.
“You’re a saint.” Your smile widens to a smitten beam as the both of you make for your bed. It’s as if you’re choked by your own anxieties — you can’t remember the last time you shared a bed with someone else.
John huffs, a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Let me go change.” He nods, moving to slip out of your room. He disappears, leaving you alone, even if it isn’t for very long.
With measured steps, you crawl into bed, comforter shrouding around your body, and you’re met with some relief from the cold. There’s a gap of quiet — gives you time to think, process what’s happened.
It almost feels ethereal, as if you’re trapped in a distant dream; John likes you, you like him. A smile tugs at your mouth, giggling to yourself like some excitable schoolgirl with a glaring crush.
Settling against your pillow, your hands loosely fold over your chest, a dull stitch pulsing through your right rib cage. Minutes tick by as you wait for him to come back, drumming your fingers over your comforter.
Another minute passes, and then five; the door suddenly opens, startling and sudden as you lurch within your bed. Your gaze flutters toward him, glued to the compression shirt and sweatpants combination.
Wordlessly, John gets into bed with you, making sure that he sticks to your left side. For him, it’s been a long time since he’s slept with someone — even before his divorce, he was sleeping on the couch.
John stills, laying on his back as he invites you closer with an arm. “Come here.” It’s soft, he’s soft for you. The mattress shifts beneath you as you scoot over, keeping to your left side, curling into him with your head against his collarbone.
“Can I ask you something?” Your inquiry pierces through the tenuous silence, and there’s some momentary relief you gain from it.
He adjusts, cerulean hues flickering toward you, taking in the delicate plate of your visage. You rip the air from his lungs without even trying; John’s hand caresses the back of your shoulder.
“Yeah.” John’s tone is barely above a whisper, warm; it sends pleasant waves through your stomach. Attentive, he waits for your question, turning enough to see you fully.
“Why didn’t you tell me about how you felt?” You’re not accusatory, just curious. Even then, you want to know what stayed his hand, or prevented him from telling you the truth.
John’s jaw tenses, a catalyst of something forlorn brewing within his eyes. There’s a brief pause of consideration; he wants to be transparent, you deserve that. “Didn’t think you’d want me, because of everything I’ve done.”
Blinking, you roll onto your left side, albeit sluggishly, and he lets you rest your head against his bicep. A dab of cologne clings to him, and you nearly smile; that’s what took him so long to come back.
“John …” Through a gentle murmur, your hand slides toward his chest, circling over his collar. “We’ve all made mistakes. I don’t expect anything different, and you’re healing.” You caution, and he seems somewhat appreciative.
The vulnerability is something he’s still growing accustomed to — rawness of pain, feeling his emotions, choosing the right way to cope.
Oftentimes, he felt like the greatest mistake of all, a dog who needed to be put down. It was a dark mindset, taking him to a place that he’d worked tirelessly to claw out of.
“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” He grits, tongue running over his teeth as he shakes his head. “I didn’t want to tarnish you, or drag you down with me. I …” John tapers off, throat working, shoulders tight with tension.
Sometimes he goes around pretending as if the weight of his past doesn’t crush him; with you, the load feels lighter, a burden he can shoulder. You’re waiting, expectant yet patient, mere breaths apart, and you’re understanding.
“I am scared of losing you,” With that confession, a heaviness seems relinquished from his chest. He isn’t one to admit that he’s afraid, let alone drag it out into the open. “Scares the hell out of me, because I don’t know who I’ll be if you’re gone.”
A hitch forms within your throat, lips parting as a gasp inhabits your lungs. Everything shifts, his admission leaving you burning; your hand searches for his own, ice upon fire.
“You won’t lose me,” Insistent, you curl closer, flush against one another; you can hear his low, sharp inhale, warmth radiating from his body. “I’m yours, John — for as long as you want me.”
John swallows, gaze turning to something incendiary, shadowed by ardor and by desire. A rough hand snakes to hold your hip, curling into the cotton material of your shorts. “Yeah?” He utters, lips dangerously close.
“Yeah.” The way he’s staring at you is nothing short of complete and utter devotion; that’s how you know he’s genuine. The palm that’s pressed over the back of your shoulder slides over your spine, and you shiver.
“I want to show you how much I want you,” He gruffs, cadence thick with something husky, something needy. John knows where this will take him, take you — he’s never wanted anything more. “If that’s alright.”
He’s charming — effortlessly handsome, and it makes your flesh burn with an embarrassed heat. Intimacy with him is something you crave, and you’re ready for it; you need him as you do air.
“More than alright.” You whisper, breathless, and his mouth hotly clamors for yours. It’s an explosion of fireworks, of pent-up affection, of an ardor that’s been smothered beneath uncertainty.
The both of you are certain now, and that’s what matters most. His kiss is disarmingly gentle, something unexpected, but not unwelcome. You feel his body nudge against yours, distance now nonexistent.
Lips collide, collide, collide — you swear that he kisses you hoarse, beard scratching over your mouth, the sensation pleasant.
Each kiss sends you spiraling, clawing for his mouth, leaving you ragged, desperate for his touch. You can’t remember the last time someone kissed you like this — kissed you with a sense of finality.
A low moan bubbles from your throat, trapped within the snare of his kiss, and you’re pressing into him. John subtly slots a thigh between your legs, causing you to spasm at the sudden contact.
“John,” With a hoarse whisper, his name rolls from your tongue, wanton. A warm exhale feathers over his mouth, lips ghosting over one another, never too far apart. “John.”
John grunts, hot breath fanning over your features, mouth peppering across your cheek, instead. His lips make contact with your jaw, mouth clamoring over your skin, kissing the spot beneath your ear.
Flustered, you’re quick to melt into him, visibly smitten, as if you’ve wound yourself into a tight knot. John notices, mouth twitching into a smirk as he places a string of kisses beneath your jawline.
He’s careful, steady — he takes his time with you, savoring, wanting to explore your body. His lips plume over your throat, hips brushing against yours, and that’s when you feel it.
Something firm sits heavy, just below your belly, oozing with heat. A noise echoes from John’s throat, somewhere between a grunt and groan when you shift against him.
“That’s what you do to me,” John murmurs, voice low, curling thickly as his hands rub circles into your hips. “You drive me crazy.” He huffs; he doesn’t know how to handle it.
He’s strong, secure — there’s a protective edge to him, caged around you. Again, you shift, allowing your core to rock over his thigh, knee brushing over the growing tent in his sweatpants.
Swallowing a groan, John’s hands curl into the hem of your sweatshirt, nudging at the fabric. “Don’t want to hurt you.” He rumbles, asking for your consent before taking things further.
“You won’t.” Reassuring, you shuffle, sitting up enough for him to pry your sweatshirt aside, gingerly lifting the baggy garment over your head. You’re still wearing a t-shirt, which you initiate in removing.
The both of you are partially beneath the comforter, the room cast in an inky darkness, save for the soft glow of the light over your headboard. Tension blisters like wildfire between you, bodies flush, clothes shuffling.
Timidly, your hands wander to the hem of his compression shirt, gaze searching his, and he’s happy to comply. “Little eager, huh?” John chides, tone low, playful. It makes you flustered, shrewd beneath his stare.
“Maybe.” Through a sweet whisper, you recline backwards, just enough to give him space, navy spandex peeled away to reveal raw muscle. Your jaw slacks, mesmerized; he’s stupidly handsome.
Broad shoulders coil with slivers of tension, blanketed in light freckles, scars, and nearly-healed bruises. Biceps curl beside you, thick and firm, something for you to hold onto.
A dusting of blonde hair covers his chest, trailing over his abdomen and slipping beneath his waistband; it makes your head spin.
John exhales, cerulean hues drifting over your body, over the pallid gauze, mapping out every inch of you like you’re a constellation. “You’re so beautiful.” He purrs, palm grasping at your haunch.
Rough, careworn hands begin to caress beneath your dress, digits snaring into the soft cotton of your shorts. Sluggishly, he teases the waistband, neglecting to push past like you want him to.
“You can touch me,” Coaxing him, you notice the little twitch of his jaw, gaze glazed with a sheen of unbridled desire. “Don’t think I can go the whole way, but I still want you.”
“When you’re healed up, we’ll do this again.” John says it like a promise, a solemn oath that you desperately want him to keep. His lips search for yours, and he’s urging you in for a kiss, hand slipping between your legs.
Between slow kisses, you’re prodding him. “Already thinking about the next time?” With a teasing lilt, you shiver when calloused fingertips slip beneath the waistband of your shorts.
John bites back a smirk, palpable against your mouth as he plants a kiss there, musculature enveloping you, impenetrable. “Can you blame me?” He murmurs, digits finding your core.
Urging him in for another kiss, you’re lost within the heated labyrinth of his lips, savoring that rugged scratch of his beard. A low moan rouses within your chest, caught between your mouths.
Seeking the warmth between your legs, you nearly choked upon a strangled gasp as John’s digits ghosted along your slit. Arousal had gathered there, akin to the sticky sweetness of honey, prompting you to shiver beside him.
Wordlessly, he pushed deeper still, fingers pressing into your cunt. As he pushed past your folds, you moaned, the noise strangled, lost between the constant kisses and clawing sighs.
“You like that?” John gruffs into your mouth, a half-growl, pulling an excitable gasp from your lungs. He feels you nodding, and he begins to adjust, hovering over you, hand working against your cunt.
You squirmed, cunt aching for him in every way imaginable, hips jolting into the sensation of his practiced digits. He began to find a steady rhythm, worn digits sliding along the length of your cunt, letting you hold onto him as much as you pleased.
As if to even the score, you’re reaching for the front of his pants, noticing the glazed look in his eyes. John huffs, letting you touch him, palm grazing over the noticeable bulge.
A muted buzz courses through your body, legs spreading to accommodate for him, flesh burning with heat. An amalgamation of limbs and heat, your body feels sensitive, a live wire.
Any scrap of friction you received drove you mad, desperation climbing to new heights as your hips rocked forward into his hand. Planting a kiss to your jaw, he continues, hand fervently working to pleasure you.
John lowers, mouth pressing against your throat, showering your flesh in a myriad of kisses. A low moan split past your chest, thighs twitching, legs unsteady as you brush your hand over the swell in his sweatpants.
“Jesus,” He groans, low and husky beside your face, rumbled into your neck. His beard scratches ragged over your flesh, and your other hand sinks beside his ribs. “Stop teasing.” He hisses, tone audibly pitched with arousal.
His lips caress over the bend of your shoulder, to the velvety hollow between that and your throat. A string of kisses manifested there, digits continuing to caress over your slit.
The rhythm was agonizing, your body screaming with ecstasy. Bodies twist together, writhe — a mess of heady sighs, moans, grunts.
Thick digits continued to warm you, prodding against your entrance as he introduced his thumb, allowing it to circle around your clit. A sharp moan ripped through your throat, agonizing.
John’s teeth suddenly puncture the juncture between your neck and shoulder, harshly grazing over your soft skin. Another pleading moan erupts from your throat, finding pleasure in the sting of his rough bite.
As your hand worms past the waistline of his sweatpants, you’re clamoring, finding his cock, masterfully well-endowed as your digits brush over the flushed head. He’s not small by any means, causing your stomach to flip.
His cock throbbed incessantly, the pressure coiled within his abdomen, unexpectedly seizing when your hand wrapped around his length.
“Christ,” John groans into your shoulder, propped on one hand, the other buried into your cunt. His fingers stutter, fleeting, digits grazing over the bundle of nerves. “S’good.”
He’s painfully hard in your palm, bleeding heat, slick within your grasp as you give his cock several sluggish, gentler strokes. Another grunt stirs within his chest, flush to yours.
There’s a tension prevalent in his shoulders, one that slowly begins to unfurl, the more you touch him. It’s a mutual exchange of bliss, touching one another, bodies twined and grinding.
“I need you,” You sputter, a half-whine, hand moving to grasp at the nape of his neck, feeling his hips urge into your palm. “Needed you for s—so long, John.” Tapering off into a moan, his body shudders against you.
John’s gaze sears a hole through you, crackling, festering with heat as his mouth draws away from your throat. He clings to your words as if they’re a lifeline, kissing you hard, enough to make your chest burn.
Chests brush against one another, firm muscle exuding warmth, peaks of your breasts ghosting over his pectorals. It’s all teeth, tongue, and want — veiled attraction spilling to the surface.
Each kiss rips the air from your lungs, leaving you reeling, gasping as you feel his tongue prod against yours.
A whine bubbles from your throat, smitten, tongue mingling with his as the kiss turns into a mess of passion. Your fingers are carding over the back of his skull, slipping over his hair as his teeth catch on your bottom lip.
“You’ve got me.” John gruffs, blonde lashes fluttering, kissing the rugged skin beneath his eyes. He slows the kiss, savoring the sweet taste of your mouth, knowing that you are what he wants, forever.
Two fingers stroke along your cunt, gathering the warm slick there with one sluggish swipe. He’s passionate, exploratory — his digits trace back to your clit, thumb beginning to circle over it.
Between your hand stroking at his cock and his hand drawing slow circles over your clit, you’re both on the edge of combustion.
As you draw your hand along his length, caressing from the base to the flushed tip, John shudders, hips rocking forward into your palm. The sensation is maddening, coil pulled tight within his stomach, the pleasure mounting.
His thumb languidly circled your clit, other digits sliding against your cunt. You squirmed and careened forward, insides hot as liquid warmth pooled between your thighs.
“John,” You moan, singing his praises as he ruts his fingers into you, his forehead flush to yours. Noses ghost over one another, lips pressing into his with another bruising kiss. “M’close.”
Never wavering in your ministrations, your hand continued to stroke along his cock, pace developing into something evocative. It was all a haze of want, touching one another as if you were bitten by a fever.
John groaned, eyes half-lidded, pliant mouth parted as a string of satisfied grunts escaped him. As your thumb dragged over the swollen head, he nearly buckled, huffing against your mouth.
The simmering flame of desire burned brightly within the pit of your stomach, his digits continuing to piston in and out of your cunt. A cry of delight tore past your lips, nails digging crescents into the nape of his neck.
Pain throbbed, an incessant ache that rippled through your ribcage, something that you actively fought to ignore. You were too enamored with John, hovering above you, stomach tight as he nears his release.
“Christ,” He gruffs, husky and rumbling as he jolts forward another time or two, cock pulsing with heat as he curls his fingers inside of you. The reaction you have is visceral, blissful. “That’s it, that’s a good girl.” John huffs.
Instantaneous, your cunt clenched tightly around his thick fingers, hips urging forward, nearly crashing into his as his thumb nudges your clit.
The sweet nickname he uses nearly sends you into some frenzy, chewing at the inside of your cheek. You want him to say it again, but your body reacts first, blindsiding you with a white-hot haze.
Teeth lightly catch your bottom lip as the both of you reach your release, a mutual entanglement, feeling his hot spend rope over your palm. You cum on his fingers, a knot of coiled tension that unfurls with a vengeance.
Stars sweep through your vision, back arched, begging for friction as you brush against him, warmth coating the juncture between your thighs. John grunts, huffing again, the noise tantalizing as he curls into you.
It’s searing and feverish, as if you’ve been washed in fire, all-consuming. He’s touching you still, grinding over your clit, breathing heavily beside your ear as if he’s running a marathon.
Perspiration smatters along his brow, countenance furled into a look of stern bliss, lips parted to make room for another groan. There’s a mess between bodies — sweat, arousal, heat.
Drawn-out sighs escape you in an attempt to recuperate, catch your breath as you lay beneath him, legs trembling from your orgasm. It’s been a long time since someone touched you and meant it, and it was a satisfying feeling.
John moves off of you, collapsing in a muscled heap at your side, knowing he’ll have to go change again. A gap of silence stretches between the both of you, comfortable, and you’re sluggishly climbing down from your peak.
“You okay?” John murmurs, chest rising and falling, breathing beginning to steady out. His head tilts, cerulean gaze traveling over your body, appreciative — the light blankets you perfectly.
“Yeah,” Unable to stop yourself from smiling, you glance at John, half-lidded with a thinly-veiled affection. “That was really nice.” You confess, thighs still shifting together to relinquish some of the tension.
With a cocksure grin, John’s body shakes with a brief laugh, and he’s sitting up, gaze warm and never wavering from you. “Hope so,” He murmurs, planting a kiss against your jaw. “Want something to drink?”
Made you cum so hard you saw stars, and now he’s asking if you want a drink; you’re beaming, head jostling in a nod. “If you don’t mind. I think I might need a painkiller or two, too. The ache is a little much.” You sigh, and he nods.
“Right.” John is often one who prefers acts of service — it’s how he displays his devotion, his affection. He does it all seamlessly, leaving your room with a confident spring in his step.
When he returns, he’s holding a bottle of prescription ibuprofen and water, along with another change of clothes. He offers you both with a brief nod, letting you relax as he slips into your bathroom to change again.
You catch a well-lit glimpse of his body, muscles raw and sinewy, shoulders broad, a layer of sun-kissed brawn. He’s impressive, handsome, strong — your gaze travels over the labyrinth of bruises and scars.
Slipping back into your raggedy t-shirt, you take several swigs of water and a lower dosage of medication, swallowing it all down before you recline back into the pillow.
He’s crawling back into your bed, scooping you up into his embrace, keeping your good side wedged against him. Exhaustion settles in, and you’re quick to cozy up to him, hands idly tracing over his abdomen.
“I could get really used to this,” You remark, soft as he plants a kiss to your brow, palm splayed out over the small of your back. John takes comfort in that, knowing that he shares the same sentiment. “Spending the night, waking up to you, being together.”
“Yeah?” He husks, scarlet settling over his visage as he nods in agreement. “I think I could, too.” John hesitates, choosing his next words carefully. “Someone has to keep an eye on you.” He grouses, as if it’s an inconvenience.
A hint of something playful lingers within his tone, prompting you to press a kiss over his scruffy jaw. The sensation makes him preen, caging you in against his musculature.
“If it’s anyone, I’d want it to be you.” Curled beside him, you feel tired, letting the haze of exhaustion begin to overtake you. He’s spent too, eyes fluttering shut as he lets out a low hum of acknowledgment. “Falling asleep on me?”
“No,” John grumbles, nose wrinkling slightly. “Your voice is putting me to sleep.” His light teasing sends your heart soaring, and you can’t help but smile, content to have him hold you.
“Really smooth,” Pressing a kiss to his shoulder, you make yourself comfortable, eyes closing as you decide to let yourself rest. “Goodnight, John.”
His mouth quirks into the ghost of a smirk, happening to open one eye as he turns his head, mouth meeting yours in a brief kiss. “I’ll see you in the morning.” John murmurs, warm breath pluming over your cheek.
You fall asleep in his arms; the pain in your ribs subsides.
Hostile Environment||John Walker (U.S. Agent) x fem!Reader
Word count: 939
Summary—you and John hate each other but when one messes up on the mission and gets separated from the rest of the team you distract yourself from the only way you can…by hate fucking.
Content Warnings: Enemies-to-lovers, raw unprotected sex, rough handling, wall sex, degradation/praise mix, name-calling, biting, possessiveness, after-mission injuries, light blood, unresolved sexual tension, post-sex denial of feelings.
The reinforced steel door slammed shut behind you, the magnetic lock hissing into place.
“Shit,” you hissed, pressing your back to the cold wall. Your shoulder burned—shrapnel, maybe—but you weren’t bleeding out. Just trapped. With him.
“Well done, sweetheart,” John muttered, pacing the length of the ruined corridor. “Next time, maybe don’t blow the goddamn exit before we’ve both cleared it.”
You scoffed. “Next time, maybe keep your head down instead of playing hero. I was busy not getting shot.”
His eyes cut toward you, jaw clenched. “I am the hero.”
You snorted, leaning your head back against the wall. “You’re a jackboot with a broken moral compass.”
John stopped in front of you, chest heaving, sweat streaking grime across his face. “You’ve got a real mouth on you.”
“Yeah? You’ve got a real stick up your ass.”
The silence between you snapped tight, strung up on static and heat and bruised adrenaline. You’d been at each other’s throats since the Thunderbolts first formed—barking, biting, circling like dogs with nowhere to run. Now it was just the two of you. Trapped underground. Hours until extraction. Armed to the teeth with tension.
His gaze dipped—just for a second. Over your chest. The torn fabric. The bloodstain. And then back up.
“You’re hurt,” he said roughly.
“No shit, genius.”
“I should look at it.”
“I’d rather bleed out.”
That made him grin—sharp and humorless. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”
“Good. Because you’re a fucking headache.”
He was in front of you before you could blink, grabbing your wrist, pushing you back into the wall not hard, not enough to hurt, but enough to say I’m done playing nice. You didn’t flinch. You never flinched.
“You gonna swing at me, soldier boy?” you taunted, lips curling.
His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Not unless you want me to.”
That was the last thing either of you said before it happened.
You surged forward. He met you halfway. Teeth, tongue, bruising lips and the taste of blood and dust. Your hands shoved his chestplate off, uncaring where it clattered. His hands ripped your vest open, fingers greedy over skin, tugging until fabric tore.
“God, you’re such a bitch,” he snarled against your mouth, grabbing your ass and hauling you up. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, nails scraping over the buzzed edge of his hair.
“And you’re a cocky, overcompensating prick,” you gasped, biting his lip so hard he groaned.
He slammed you against the wall. Concrete bit into your back. His fingers were already undoing his belt, fumbling with your pants. Too fast, too frantic to be careful.
“You want this?” he growled.
You grabbed his jaw, forcing his face close. “If you stop now, I’ll kill you.”
That was all he needed.
It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t sweet.
It was raw spit-slick, pants shoved halfway down, bodies bruised from battle and still aching for more. John thrust into you like he had something to prove, like every grunt and growl and curse was another point scored.
You clawed at his back, dug your heels into his flak jacket, rode the pain like a wave. “Harder, you asshole,” you panted, forehead pressed to his.
He laughed darkly. “Bossy little thing. Bet you get off on barking orders.”
“Bet you cry after sex.”
He fucked you harder.
Your breath hitched as he bottomed out, thick and burning, scraping your walls raw. “Fuck—”
“That’s right,” he hissed. “Take it. Just like that. Loudmouth bitch can’t shut up unless she’s full of cock, huh?”
You moaned, biting down on his shoulder so hard he cursed again. He didn’t stop. Didn’t falter. Just gripped your hips tighter and rutted up into you like he hated the way you felt too good.
You met him thrust for thrust, eyes rolling back when his pelvis ground against your clit. “Fucking—God, John—”
His name on your tongue nearly undid him.
“Say it again,” he demanded, hand wrapping around your throat—not choking, just holding. Possessive. Wild.
You hissed through your teeth, hips rolling. “John. Walker. You fuck like you fight—messy.”
That made him growl.
“I’m gonna cum in you,” he said, low and filthy. “You’ll feel it for days.”
You didn’t stop him.
Didn’t want to.
You clenched around him, thighs shaking. “Do it,” you whispered. “Fucking do it.”
He kissed you hard when he came—snarling into your mouth, hips twitching, warmth flooding you in thick, pulsing waves.
You followed seconds later, stars bursting behind your eyes, body tensed and boneless all at once. It left you breathless, panting, still clinging to him like you might fall if you let go.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Just breathing. Skin slick. Minds racing.
Then—
“Get off,” you mumbled.
He stepped back reluctantly, slipping out of you with a grunt. You winced. Your legs nearly gave out. He caught you before you hit the ground, muttering, “Don’t flatter yourself—I just don’t want to explain your corpse to Ross.”
You shoved his chest. “Still a prick.”
He grinned. “Still wet for me.”
You huffed, turning away, yanking your pants back up. “This meant nothing.”
“Good,” he said. “Because I still can’t stand you.”
But when you turned your back, he looked at you like he already missed the weight of you around him. Like he didn’t hate the way you said his name.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ based on the prompts "don't go on that date." "why?" "you know why." "say it."
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ cursing
use this magical link to pick your favorite marvel character and send in a request :)
The zipper trembles slightly between your fingers as you pull it up. Not because your hands are shaking—at least not much—but because you’re second-guessing the decision you made twenty minutes ago. The jacket is soft, tan suede, something you haven’t worn since before the Thunderbolts—back when “casual” didn’t feel like an act of rebellion. Underneath is a black camisole that clings just enough to make you feel alive again. Real.
You told yourself it wasn’t for him.
But in the mirror, you can’t ignore the way you check your profile—your hair tucked just right, your collarbones exposed, the gloss on your lips just a touch shinier than usual. Your fingers linger at your throat for a second too long, brushing against the delicate chain necklace you threw on without thinking. A gift to yourself. A piece of the old you.
The door creaks behind you. The energy shifts instantly. You don’t need to look. You already know who it is. That same low, smoldering pressure that always coils at the base of your spine when he’s near.
John Walker.
You can see him in the mirror before he speaks. He’s leaning in the doorway like he owns it—broad shoulders tense, one hand gripping the frame just tight enough for the knuckles to go white. He’s in black tactical gear, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms like he was either coming from training or looking for an excuse to fight. His hair is a mess, you knew he had been messing with it. His eyes are already on you. Not just watching—reading.
“You going somewhere?” he asks, voice casual—but the kind of casual that cuts, his shoulder was pressed into the doorframe, his body completely blocked up the space.
You smooth your hands down the front of your jacket, mostly to keep yourself busy or at least to look busy. If you didn’t there was just the smallest chance you wouldn’t go anywhere. “Yeah. Civvies. Off base. Crazy, I know.”
He moves closer landing his feet on the ground from where one leg had been crossed over the other, a slow step that echoes across the floor. “With who?”
You shrug, not turning yet. You want to make him wait and you do not wanna give him the idea that his presence would affect anything. “Someone who asked.”
In the mirror, you catch the flicker in his jaw. That’s where it always starts with him—just a little tension that spreads like cracks through ice. He blinked and looked to the window before looking back at you. He knew you were making a dig, and man was he happy you did because it was giving him a reason to dig back.
“Right,” he mutters, his tone shifting. “Let me guess—one of the new handlers? The guy who can't even clear a sidearm properly?”
You turn now, slowly, facing him with your arms folded. A casual stance, but defensive. You catch the way his eyes drop—not to be disrespectful, but because he’s scanning. Reading your body, your outfit, the way the light hits your collarbone. His gaze lingers at your neckline a second too long before he tears it away. All that did was anger him more, not even he deserved to have you dress up to go do something with him let alone some other idiot.
“You been spying on me now, Walker?” you ask, your voice cool, laced with something sharper. You knew he was, he had been for a while. At first it was to figure out what you liked and what he could be doing for you that would be considered little gestures. The biggest issue was that John had a hard time making up his mind on what to do about you. So he would go back and forth between bringing you lunch and organizing your laundry in its basket to not talking to you at all. Which is one of the biggest things that led you to this situation.
He shrugs. That signature Walker arrogance, but there’s no real heat in it. Only frustration. “Just observant.”
You tilt your head, the corners of your mouth twitching. What hurt you was that you knew that he knew how you felt about him in some way. If he didn’t he would’ve never done any of the nice things he had been doing. “No, you’re being a dick.”
He stiffens. The smirk disappears like you flipped a switch. “I’m just wondering when you started going for guys who talk big and fall apart the second they’re in the field.”
You step closer, boots scuffing against the tile. “You don’t know him.”
“And you do?” he bites back. “What—he bought you a drink and suddenly he’s worth your time?”
You flare at that. Your fingers tighten around your arms, gripping your own skin like it’ll keep you from lunging. “What’s your problem, John?”
He’s silent, but his eyes are screaming. That unreadable expression cracks at the edges—his jaw clenched, shoulders rising and falling like he’s trying to keep himself from exploding. He takes a step forward, then another. The air between you grows thick, electric. You can smell the faint scent of cedar from his cologne, cucumber from shampoo, and mint from where he must have brushed he teeth , something grounded.
“My problem is you’re going out with some paper-pusher while we’re still knee-deep in this Thunderbolts circus and pretending like it’s normal.” He was sounding meaner and meaner the more he talked, his tone was rough and his volume was rising.
You hold your ground, you knew that he could be mean it was no shocker. “You’re right. It’s not normal. None of this is. But that doesn’t mean I have to sit around waiting for someone who doesn’t say what he means.”
That hits harder than you mean it to. You see it in his eyes. The wounded flash behind the blue. His hands flex at his sides—twitching, like he’s resisting the urge to reach out and grab you or punch the wall behind you. His chest is heaving and he is tapping his left foot slowly on and off like he can’t stand to be in his own skin. He steps closer quickly, if you didn’t know any better you would think you were about to be attacked. He was now close enough that the fabric of your sleeves brushes with every breath. Close enough that if either of you moved an inch forward, you’d be touching.
And at that moment, he hated himself a little.
Not for wanting you—but for waiting this long. For letting mission after mission bury whatever this thing between you was. He told himself it was about professionalism, about keeping a clear head. But really, it was fear. Because the second he let himself want you, he wouldn’t be able to stop. And guys like him? They don’t get the girl. They get grief, and consequences, and orders they don’t question. But watching you walk out that door tonight—for someone else—feels worse than any battlefield he's crawled off of.
The amount of control he was using was insane, his skin was turning red from being so angry and he was using his left hand to fidget just a bit. He doesn’t let himself touch you. So he speaks instead.
And then—
“Don’t go on that date.”
The words are barely above a whisper, but they punch the air out of your lungs. You are completely still, you are the deer in front of the car. You saw the sadness in his eyes, the desperation that sat there. This was not his forte, it never really was. The only girls he had dated before his ex-wife were just with him because of his physique or just to brag that they were with someone clean cut. At first he minded and really wished he could find something, anyone to be real. But eventually he fell into the game of who gives a fuck lets just have some fun. But when he looked at you he felt like that teenager again, the one who really did want something, anything real.
You just blink. “What?”
His eyes don’t leave yours. His voice doesn't shake, but there's a quiet desperation laced through every word. He was above crying, at least he told himself that but he was not above begging at this moment. “Don’t go.”
You should walk past him. You should be the one who doesn’t break. He had done this to himself, you did nothing but show him kindness back when he graced you with his. In fact you had been the one who was constantly trying to figure out what was going on between the two of you. But the crack is already spreading. That part of you that had been trying to put the pieces together was still very curious.
“Why?”
His lips part. His brows pull together just slightly. He looks at you like a man who’s spent weeks on the edge of a cliff, finally realizing the fall might be worth it. He moves his hands from his sides to put them on your waist but before he can he puts them right back.
“You know why.”
That’s not enough. Not anymore. You need to hear him say it. He was not going to get away with just leaving things so broad that it could be taken as anything, this was all or nothing.
“Say it,” you whisper.
The tension breaks like a snapped wire. His shoulders sag an inch, just enough to betray the weight he’s been carrying. The eye contact was unbearable. He hoped you could not see what he was feeling, but if you could he was hoping that nervousness was not one of those things.
“Because he’s not me.” John was looking down at you, his eyes practically begging you to say something. But you had to see that he was being honest, that what he said was not some mean joke.
Your throat tightens. Your hands curl, unsure whether to reach for him or shove him away. The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s heavy. Charged. Like the moment before a lightning strike. The corner of your kip was now underneath the weight of your teeth. All of a sudden your clothes felt like they weighed hundreds of pounds and were hot as hell. And still, neither of you moves because the ball is in your court. Normally he would not care nor would he respect that but this was different. This was not the same shit he could usually pull.
“John—”
It comes out quieter than you meant. Like the sound got stuck in your throat on the way out. Barely a breath, just enough to reach him. He flinches. You would’ve missed it if you weren’t watching him so closely—the way his shoulders twitch, the way the line of his jaw tightens under the weight of that one syllable. Your voice, soft and uncertain, wrapped around his name like it means something. Like it still means something.
His eyes close for half a heartbeat. You catch the flash of restraint in his face like a wave crashing through him and barely receding. He exhales through his nose, slow and rough, and when he opens his eyes again, they’re burning. Not angry. Not wild. Wounded.
He’s standing there like a man carved out of stone—but you see the cracks. In his silence. In his knuckles, where his fingers twitch against the fabric of his pants like he’s desperate for something to hold onto. In the way he’s biting down on the inside of his cheek, hard, like he’s punishing himself for letting the words out at all.
You know what this is costing him.
You know what it takes for John Walker to admit that he feels anything.
And maybe that’s why your chest aches as you stand there, heat crawling up your neck like shame and hope are fighting for space beneath your skin. You shift your weight, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your boots scuff on the tile, the way your jacket feels too tight across your chest now, the way your lip is still caught between your teeth.
You want to ask him why now. Why not two weeks ago, when you sat next to him on that rooftop and the air between you had been just as electric, just as close, and he said nothing. Why not that night in the common area, when your knees brushed and he looked at you like he might say something real, then didn’t?
But you don’t ask.
Because you’re afraid of the answer.
And because right now, the way he’s looking at you—like you’re a decision he’s been avoiding for too long—it feels like he’s trying to make up for all of it in this one impossible moment.
He shifts his stance again, but he still doesn’t reach for you. His hands twitch at his sides—useless, hesitant, undone. He’s never looked more dangerous. And he’s never looked more unsure.
The silence after is louder than the words.He waits. Not breathing. Not blinking. Like he’s on a wire, waiting to be pushed. And you don’t know what you’re going to do next. You don’t know if you’re going to take a step forward or tear the door open and leave. Because there’s something in your chest clawing its way out. A scream. A sob. A kiss.
And then—
There’s a knock.
Sharp. Urgent.
Your head snaps toward the door.
His eyes follow.
Neither of you moves.
A voice calls your name from the other side. Too familiar. Too timed.
John’s jaw sets. You see the walls go back up behind his eyes—fast, brutal, practiced. His fists clench, and for the first time in the whole damn conversation, he looks away.
Hostile Environment||John Walker (U.S. Agent) x fem!Reader
Word count: 939
Summary—you and John hate each other but when one messes up on the mission and gets separated from the rest of the team you distract yourself from the only way you can…by hate fucking.
Content Warnings: Enemies-to-lovers, raw unprotected sex, rough handling, wall sex, degradation/praise mix, name-calling, biting, possessiveness, after-mission injuries, light blood, unresolved sexual tension, post-sex denial of feelings.
The reinforced steel door slammed shut behind you, the magnetic lock hissing into place.
“Shit,” you hissed, pressing your back to the cold wall. Your shoulder burned—shrapnel, maybe—but you weren’t bleeding out. Just trapped. With him.
“Well done, sweetheart,” John muttered, pacing the length of the ruined corridor. “Next time, maybe don’t blow the goddamn exit before we’ve both cleared it.”
You scoffed. “Next time, maybe keep your head down instead of playing hero. I was busy not getting shot.”
His eyes cut toward you, jaw clenched. “I am the hero.”
You snorted, leaning your head back against the wall. “You’re a jackboot with a broken moral compass.”
John stopped in front of you, chest heaving, sweat streaking grime across his face. “You’ve got a real mouth on you.”
“Yeah? You’ve got a real stick up your ass.”
The silence between you snapped tight, strung up on static and heat and bruised adrenaline. You’d been at each other’s throats since the Thunderbolts first formed—barking, biting, circling like dogs with nowhere to run. Now it was just the two of you. Trapped underground. Hours until extraction. Armed to the teeth with tension.
His gaze dipped—just for a second. Over your chest. The torn fabric. The bloodstain. And then back up.
“You’re hurt,” he said roughly.
“No shit, genius.”
“I should look at it.”
“I’d rather bleed out.”
That made him grin—sharp and humorless. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”
“Good. Because you’re a fucking headache.”
He was in front of you before you could blink, grabbing your wrist, pushing you back into the wall not hard, not enough to hurt, but enough to say I’m done playing nice. You didn’t flinch. You never flinched.
“You gonna swing at me, soldier boy?” you taunted, lips curling.
His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Not unless you want me to.”
That was the last thing either of you said before it happened.
You surged forward. He met you halfway. Teeth, tongue, bruising lips and the taste of blood and dust. Your hands shoved his chestplate off, uncaring where it clattered. His hands ripped your vest open, fingers greedy over skin, tugging until fabric tore.
“God, you’re such a bitch,” he snarled against your mouth, grabbing your ass and hauling you up. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, nails scraping over the buzzed edge of his hair.
“And you’re a cocky, overcompensating prick,” you gasped, biting his lip so hard he groaned.
He slammed you against the wall. Concrete bit into your back. His fingers were already undoing his belt, fumbling with your pants. Too fast, too frantic to be careful.
“You want this?” he growled.
You grabbed his jaw, forcing his face close. “If you stop now, I’ll kill you.”
That was all he needed.
It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t sweet.
It was raw spit-slick, pants shoved halfway down, bodies bruised from battle and still aching for more. John thrust into you like he had something to prove, like every grunt and growl and curse was another point scored.
You clawed at his back, dug your heels into his flak jacket, rode the pain like a wave. “Harder, you asshole,” you panted, forehead pressed to his.
He laughed darkly. “Bossy little thing. Bet you get off on barking orders.”
“Bet you cry after sex.”
He fucked you harder.
Your breath hitched as he bottomed out, thick and burning, scraping your walls raw. “Fuck—”
“That’s right,” he hissed. “Take it. Just like that. Loudmouth bitch can’t shut up unless she’s full of cock, huh?”
You moaned, biting down on his shoulder so hard he cursed again. He didn’t stop. Didn’t falter. Just gripped your hips tighter and rutted up into you like he hated the way you felt too good.
You met him thrust for thrust, eyes rolling back when his pelvis ground against your clit. “Fucking—God, John—”
His name on your tongue nearly undid him.
“Say it again,” he demanded, hand wrapping around your throat—not choking, just holding. Possessive. Wild.
You hissed through your teeth, hips rolling. “John. Walker. You fuck like you fight—messy.”
That made him growl.
“I’m gonna cum in you,” he said, low and filthy. “You’ll feel it for days.”
You didn’t stop him.
Didn’t want to.
You clenched around him, thighs shaking. “Do it,” you whispered. “Fucking do it.”
He kissed you hard when he came—snarling into your mouth, hips twitching, warmth flooding you in thick, pulsing waves.
You followed seconds later, stars bursting behind your eyes, body tensed and boneless all at once. It left you breathless, panting, still clinging to him like you might fall if you let go.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Just breathing. Skin slick. Minds racing.
Then—
“Get off,” you mumbled.
He stepped back reluctantly, slipping out of you with a grunt. You winced. Your legs nearly gave out. He caught you before you hit the ground, muttering, “Don’t flatter yourself—I just don’t want to explain your corpse to Ross.”
You shoved his chest. “Still a prick.”
He grinned. “Still wet for me.”
You huffed, turning away, yanking your pants back up. “This meant nothing.”
“Good,” he said. “Because I still can’t stand you.”
But when you turned your back, he looked at you like he already missed the weight of you around him. Like he didn’t hate the way you said his name.
It was raining. Hard. And when there's heavy rain, there's lightning, and when there's lightning...there's thunder. John Walker hated the thunder. It was loud, and it reminded him of his late night military missions. He shot up in bed as the first roar of thunder rumbled through the tower. Groaning, he ran a hand over his face before covering his ears for a second. He felt pathetic. Weak. He definitely couldn't let any of the team find out he was scared. Ava and Yelena would never let him live that down.
A flash of lightning warned him about the incoming noise, and he covered his ears again instinctively. He winced as he heard the muffled noise. He shook his head in frustration and forced his hands down. You're a grown man, act like it. He scolded himself. He squinted in the thick darkness of his room before leaning over to his nightstand to turn on his lamp. A soft glow illuminated the space around him and he exhaled. As long as he could distract himself...he should be fine.
Another clap of thunder rang through the tower, and he shut his eyes and took a breath trying to block out some of the bad military memories. What he didn't expect was the knock at him door. His voice came out in a tired mumble. "Come in." He quickly rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his messy hair.
The door creaked open to reveal you. You were clad in an oversized t-shirt and some sleep shorts. He sat up straighter in bed, clearing his throat. His blue eyes scanned your body quickly before settling on your face. You looked frightened.
"Hey..." Your voice was soft. "I saw your light was on and...I just..." You scratched the top of your head nervously. "I'm scared of thunder. And you seemed like the strongest so..."
John blinked and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes before taking a deep breath. "Right...yeah. Come here." He gently pat the space beside him on the bed.
You closed the door behind you and walked over to his bed. The thunder roared again and you jumped slightly. "I hate it when it does that."
He had jumped as well but he hoped you didn't notice. "Yeah. Me too." He whispered.
Your eyes studied him as you curled yourself up on his bed. "Are you scared of the thunder?"
"What? Psh, no." He scoffed, though his eyes betrayed him slightly. He couldn't be weak in front of you, not when you came to him for comfort. "I'm a war hero. Thunder doesn't scare me."
He clenched his fists as another rumble of thunder echoed through the room. You noticed it and looked at him softly. "You know...you don't always have to be the tough guy."
John raised an eyebrow and laughed transparently. "I'm not scared."
"Don't lie to me John."
"Maybe I'm a little scared. It triggers bad memories from my time in the military. No one ever talks about the consequences of being a perfect soldier." He fiddled with his blanket and shrugged.
Before he could look up at you, he felt a warm embrace. You were hugging him. He stiffened for a second before relaxing and wrapping his arms around you. A shaky breath escaped his lips and you tightened your grip slightly.
"Being with someone helps a lot when I'm scared." You spoke quietly against his neck, and it sent pleasant shivers down his spine. He couldn't deny he felt an attraction to you ever since you joined the team. He just never thought you'd feel the same.
"Yeah...it's...nice." His fingers gently threaded through your hair and you hummed softly aginst him. This time when the thunder came around, he didn't flinch. He was too wrapped up in you for his mind to care.
"Mind if I stay here for the night?" The request sent a surge of warmth through his body.
"Of course." His voice came out more breathless than he intended, but his grip never loosened. He gently moved his hands across your back. "You know, if thunderstorms always bring you snuggling up to me...they might become my favorite thing."
This caused a laugh to come from you. "Thunderstorm cuddles sound like a great time."
He hummed, the sound rumbling softly against you. "You're right about that."
After a while of soft breaths and tight embrace, you spoke. "I don't think you're weak for being scared of thunder. In fact, it makes me feel a little better that I'm not the only one. And it says a lot about your character to try to comfort me when you're scared too."
His cheeks burned as he heard you, but he tried to brush it off. "Yeah yeah, whatever, Thanks. Just don't tell the others about this, yeah?"
"I won't. As long as we make these cuddles a regular thing."
He smiled at that. "I think I can arrange that princess." He gently nuzzled against your hair. "Not a problem at all."
This time, in a sudden pfft, it sprays something directly into both of your faces—a cloud of shimmering mist exploding into the air. It smells sweet... too sweet. Like overripe fruit or syrup, or cotton candy left in the sun. Almost sickly.
Bob coughs, waving his hand in front of his face. “What was that?”
“A defence mechanism, perhaps—” you begin, but your voice trails off as something shifts.
The stem starts to grow, elongating right before your eyes, inch by inch. Then, like something out of a sci-fi movie, thin tendrils begin sprouting from the base, curling and stretching like green tentacles.
“Okay, what kind of flower shop did you go to?” you ask, backing up a step.
Bob’s eyes are locked on it in horror. “I don’t know! I swear it looked normal! The lady had an apron!”
Or
You’ve been the live-in doctor at Avengers Tower for a year, and Bob wants to get you something special to celebrate. Unbeknownst to him, that something special turns out to be a sex plant.
Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit content, sex plant, sex pollen, p in v, cowgirl/reverse cowgirl, crazy thoughts from horny!reader, Bob's good intentions backfiring
A/N: I saw Thunderbolts earlier this week, and I felt compelled to write something! My Marvel obsession is so back, and I’m so in love with Bob, and consuming so much Thunderbolts fanfiction, I think I’m genuinely going crazy
⋆˙⟡⋆˙⟡⋆˙⟡⋆˙⟡
Bob teeters on his heels as he looks around the flower shop. He was here to get a gift for you, but he had no idea what you would like. Then, while browsing the camellias, a woman appears, half scaring the life out of him, asking him what he’s looking for, and he tells her as best he knows how.
“I’m looking for something special for someone special.”
“Special, huh?” She replies with a mischievous smile, “I have just the flower for you.”
He watches as she disappears into the recesses of the shop and wonders if he’s making the right decision.
You were important to him, but maybe flowers were too much; perhaps you would see right through it and see the feelings he was trying (and failing) to hide. The whole team could see it. Alexei kept giving him unsolicited —and mostly unhelpful— advice about it, while John and Ava never missed a chance to tease him whenever they caught him gawking at you. And Yelena and Bucky tried their best to nudge him forward in their own ways; Yelena with blunt encouragement, Bucky with quieter, knowing looks and the occasional grunt that somehow conveyed volumes.
But Bob remained resolute, content with just admiring you from afar.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
Ever since you were introduced to the team as their live-in doctor, he knew he didn’t stand a chance. You were a ray of sunshine. Exceptional at your job and had this strange but beautiful quality where you could make anyone feel at ease within seconds of meeting them.
He felt it firsthand when he walked into the med bay in the Tower. You were sitting there, clipboard in hand, and welcomed him in with a warm smile, motioning for him to sit. He obeyed without a word, nerves already prickling beneath his skin.
“I’m just going to take some blood samples, okay?” you said gently.
His eyes darted around the room—white, sterile walls, the faint smell of antiseptic in the air. Tests didn’t often lead to good things in his experience, and he felt that this one would be no different. His posture stiffened, and his breath was shallow. But as if sensing his unease, you placed a hand on his arm, steady, reassuring.
“If you’re feeling uncomfortable, I’m right here. And if you want me to stop, you just go right ahead and tell me.”
Bob nodded slowly, looking into your eyes—your beautiful, beautiful eyes that somehow made the rest of the world fade to background noise.
“I just need you to take some deep breaths for me, can you do that?”
You looked at him with such gentle care, and for a moment, he felt like he’d known you longer than just a minute. It felt crazy how fast he was falling for you, but it was happening all the same.
“Yeah… I can do that,” he replied, voice low.
And he had never been the same.
From that moment on, he’d been falling for you—hard. Making lovey-dovey eyes at you over morning coffee in the communal kitchen, pretending not to watch you when you laughed at someone’s joke, finding excuses to linger a little longer in any room you were in.
He toys with his watch, waiting for the florist to come back and flinches as he hears crashes and curses. He has half a mind to go and check on her when she suddenly pops out with a crooked smile and her hair askew, presenting the flower to him.
“Trust me, your girlfriend is going to love this one. Rarest thing in here.”
“She’s…” He stops, watching as the worker flits around the shop, putting the finishing touches on the arrangement. What use was it explaining anyway? How could he put you into words?
It was a strange flower, one he didn’t recognise. Its petals folded into each other. It was unlike any flower he’d ever seen, almost alien. But it was also beautiful, rare and special. Just like you. He buys it in a heartbeat, but the anxiety that follows is sickening. As he goes back to the tower, he thinks about turning around, getting something safer—chocolates, maybe. A coffee voucher. Literally anything else.
‘Maybe it’s not good enough, or what if she hates it?’
He plays with the loose yarn on his sweater as he nervously looks down at the plant.
‘What if she pretends to like it but actually hates it and, in turn, hates me?’
He overthinks all the way down the street, onto the subway, up the Avengers Tower elevator, until he eventually reaches the door to your office.
Then—three knocks. His heart sinks into his stomach the second his knuckles leave the wood.
The door swings open, with you on the other side of it, a smile blooming on your face as soon as you see him.
“Bob!” You say excitedly.
You’re clearly happy to see him and hurriedly usher him inside. The rest of the Avengers had been on a mission for the past two days and counting, so it was just you and Bob. It had been quite nice to spend time with him one-on-one. You even had a movie night the night prior, which ended with Bob falling asleep on your shoulder.
“What do you have there?” you ask, tilting your head slightly, catching sight of something he's hiding behind his back.
He hesitates for a beat, then slowly brings it forward, revealing a single, delicate flower—its petals a rich, otherworldly shade of purple, like something from a dream. It’s almost enchanting. You stare at it in awe, momentarily speechless.
“It’s a gift,” he says, placing it on your desk, voice shy but steady. “To celebrate you being here for a year. I… we really appreciate you.”
Your eyes soften at his words. You can see he’s nervous, waiting for your reaction like it might determine the course of his entire week.
But all you feel is warmth. You thought it was so sweet of him to do this for you; it was so thoughtful, so Bob. You’d felt a connection with him from the moment you met, something quiet but persistent that never quite went away.
“Thank you,” you say, genuinely. “I love it. Truly.”
You’re probably smiling too much, but when it comes to Bob, you can’t help yourself. You snap out of your loving stare as something flickers in your peripheral vision.
“Is it supposed to glow?” you ask, your eyes narrowing slightly as the petals shimmer faintly, a soft pulse of light running through them like a heartbeat.
“I, uh… I don’t think so?” Bob replies, frowning.
He leans in, squinting at the flower. The glow pulses again. Cautiously, he pokes it with one finger.
The flower twitches.
“It moved,” he says, eyes wide with a mix of fascination and fear.
“What? No way.” You step closer, trying to get a better look, equal parts sceptical and intrigued.
But then it twitches again, its petals bristling at the touch, and both of you freeze.
“…Did you buy this from a normal flower shop?” you ask slowly, eyeing him.
“I thought I did!” Bob says, his voice pitching just a little higher than usual.
You poke it again.
This time, in a sudden pfft, it sprays something directly into both of your faces—a cloud of shimmering mist exploding into the air. It smells sweet... too sweet. Like overripe fruit or syrup, or cotton candy left in the sun. Almost sickly.
Bob coughs, waving his hand in front of his face. “What was that?”
“A defence mechanism, perhaps—” you begin, but your voice trails off as something shifts.
The stem starts to grow, elongating right before your eyes, inch by inch. Then, like something out of a sci-fi movie, thin tendrils begin sprouting from the base, curling and stretching like green tentacles.
“Okay, what kind of flower shop did you go to?” you ask, backing up a step.
Bob’s eyes are locked on it in horror. “I don’t know! I swear it looked normal! The lady had an apron!”
In hindsight, the florist did seem a bit sketchy. The shop was tucked away in a dark, back alley, its dim interior lit flickering by lamps that looked like they hadn’t been updated since the ’70s. The air was thick with a faint smoke that he had to try not to choke on, but in his defence, Bob had just assumed it was part of the shop’s "vintage" aesthetic.
The flower twitches again, and one of the tendrils gently brushes your desk lamp, knocking it askew.
“We should probably contain that,” you say.
“Or burn it,” Bob offers weakly.
You don’t have enough time to deliberate before they’re coming straight for you. They coordinate a joint attack and grab hold of your shirt. It has a relentless grip on it and tears it apart without a care. In the back of your mind, you have to take a second to mourn one of your favourite work shirts.
The plant, however, is far from done with you. Before you can react, one of its slippery, vine-like tendrils reaches for your wrist, its texture cold and unnervingly smooth. It’s trying to pin you down, the tendril wrapping around your forearm like a slippery snake.
“Bob!” you yell, panic rising in your voice.
Bob springs into action without hesitation. He grabs your arm, pulling you back just in time. But in the chaos, both of you tumble backwards, your feet tangling in each other’s as you fall to the floor.
You land… on top of him.
For a moment, everything stops. Your breath catches, his heart races beneath you, and there’s a stillness, an accidental closeness that makes everything feel like it’s happening in slow motion.
“Well, that was eventful,” you comment, breathless, glancing back over your shoulder at the plant—still twitching, preparing for its next move. The tendrils are growing faster now, more aggressive, and it’s only a matter of time before it tries to grab you again.
“Watch out,” he warns, voice sharp, as he pushes you aside with surprising strength. The moment you’re clear, he rolls to his feet, eyes fixed on the plant.
It lashes out, one of its tendrils reaching for your throat, but Bob is faster, shoving you out of harm’s way just in time.
In the seconds it took you to escape from it, the plant had doubled in size, its tentacles now oozing with a thick, viscous substance. It seemed to pulse, almost alive with an aggressive energy, like it was anticipating its next strike.
The plant gives you no time to catch your breath. Before you can react, it swipes again, this time reaching for Bob’s jeans. With surprising strength, one of the tendrils successfully yanks him to the ground, dragging him closer to its growing mass. The little tendrils begin climbing up the inside of his trousers, slithering toward his legs like they have a mind of their own.
“Holy shit,” you exclaim, adrenaline flooding your veins as you rush to grab his hands, pulling with all your strength in a futile attempt to free him. Where are the Avengers when you need them?
Unfortunately, you have no super strength or any useful abilities. Bob’s still being dragged closer, inch by inch.
But what you do have, is a pretty damn good throwing arm.
You glance around the room, your mind racing for anything you can use. Your eyes land on the lamp on your desk, your favourite one. Bob had always joked about how you wouldn’t let anyone touch it. Without a second thought, you sprint across the room, grab it in one smooth motion, and hurl it toward the plant’s centre of mass.
The lamp flies through the air, and you’re about ready to start celebrating, but just as it’s about to make contact with the plant, the tendrils shift, dodging the attack like it’s alive and aware of what’s coming.
“Crap,” you mutter. "It dodged."
This had to be one of the worst moments of your life.
Bob tries to crawl away, his muscles screaming in protest as he drags himself across the floor. His mind is a chaotic mess, every thought running a mile a minute. This day wasn’t supposed to go like this. He was supposed to give you the gift and see that smile of yours light up your face, not get fondled by a plant monster.
The tendrils continue their relentless pursuit, now reaching the edge of his boxers, squirming and twisting, as if looking for any way to get inside.
“Hold on, just a second!”
“Please hurry, it’s kind of ticklish,” He blurts out as he writhes on the ground, “And wet.”
They find their way inside his boxers, reaching his dick and starting to wrap their way around it, making him tremble.
The tentacles continue to secrete that viscous liquid, slick and glistening as they slip up and around his cock, their movements still clumsy, but starting to adapt to what makes him react. Bob struggles beneath its weight, panic flashing in his eyes as the tendrils flick over his sensitive tip, starting to pulse around him.
You’re frozen for a moment, heart racing, watching him fight against the plant’s hold. The air is thick with desperation, and for a split second, you wonder if you’re going to be too late. But then your mind snaps back into focus. This can’t keep going. You need a plan and fast.
You scan the room, eyes darting from the plant to Bob and back again. The papers on your desk, the fire extinguisher near the door, the window—wait. Without wasting another second, you rush over to it, pulling it down with a swift motion. You have no idea if this’ll work, but Bob’s safety is the only thing that matters, and you’d do anything to ensure it.
“Hold on!” you shout, as you aim the nozzle at the base of the plant.
You pull the trigger.
It’s temporarily thwarted, and you breathe out a sigh of relief when you see it retreat from Bob’s jeans.
“Come on!” you shout, reaching for Bob and pulling him to his feet. The moment you’ve got a solid grip on him, you both scramble toward safety, adrenaline fuelling your movements.
You rush toward the front door, but just as you reach it, the plant’s vines stretch out, blocking your escape. The thick, twisted tendrils curl around the doorframe, trapping you in.
You turn on your heels, panic setting in as you dash to the far side of the room. There’s only one other way out, the door that leads to the lab part of your office.
You reach the door, flinging it open just in time, and drag Bob inside with you. As you slam the door shut, you quickly lock it, the sound echoing. The room is dim, but you barely notice the light as you both stand there, chest heaving, trying to catch your breath. It’s all you can both hear before you finally break the silence.
“What the fuck?”
He’s panicking. He’s panicking hard.
He attempted to do something nice, something to show just how much you mean to him and the rest of the team but instead he got you attacked by a plant that wanted to fuck you.
“I screwed this up. I’m so sorry. I... I—” He stammers, his voice trembling with regret. He tries to continue, but the words seem to catch in his throat. He’s frustrated, overwhelmed by the situation and the guilt of what just happened.
You immediately notice the signs. The way he's retreating into himself, shoulders hunched, eyes avoiding yours. The guilt and panic are all over his face, and for a moment, you realise how much this is affecting him. He must think you’re mad at him, but you’re not. Not in the slightest. You weren’t even sure if you could be mad at him; he was Bob.
You take a step forward, placing yourself in his line of sight, standing in front of him. You don’t need to say anything else. You don’t need him to apologise again.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” your voice acting as his source of stability, even though you’re both still shaking from the chaos.
But before he can respond, there’s a loud bang against the door. A deep, guttural scraping noise as the plant’s tentacles push against it, trying to force their way inside. They both jump at the sounds, and he tries to curl in on himself, his hands gripping into his hair as he shuts everything out, nothing but his own voice echoing in his head.
‘Of course, you’d mess this up.’
“Bob, look at me, please.”
‘She probably hates you now.’
He opens his eyes slowly, and you can see it—the fear. The gold in his eyes flickers, a silent reflection of his inner turmoil. He’s been holding it all together for so long, but now, one mistake has him spiralling, and it’s all spilling out in front of you.
He hates that you can see it. The cracks in his composure, the weight of the guilt sinking into his chest. The last thing he wanted was to fall apart in front of you, to let you see just how much he’s struggling with everything.
“I put you in danger,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze drops to the floor, shame and regret lacing his words.
You can’t let him carry this alone. You can’t let him drown in his own guilt when you know the truth: it wasn’t his fault. He only wanted to do something nice for you.
You step forward further into his space, cupping his face gently in your hands. His breath catches and you feel his warm skin under your palms, the tension in the air thick but not overwhelming.
“It’s okay,” you say softly, your thumb brushing against his cheek. “I’m alright, aren’t I?”
‘She doesn’t mean it.’
“I try to do one thing, and I just made things worse. I ruined everything—”
“You didn’t ruin anything, okay? I loved the fact that you got me a gift, and we’re going to get out of this.”
You pull him close, and you both embrace each other tightly, the chaos outside fading away for a brief moment as you both seek comfort in the silence of the hug.
But suddenly, like a switch had been flipped, you become acutely aware of every touch, every shift of his body against yours. The warmth of his arms, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath, it all feels intensified. It’s like you’re hyper-aware of the sensation of him against you, and it’s overstimulating in a way you weren’t expecting.
You subconsciously nuzzle into his touch, breathing in his scent. He smells so good, you would even describe it as intoxicating. The feeling of him holding you, so close, feels delicious. The feeling of his fingers against your bare skin, mouth-watering.
You lean into him even more, a soft moan slipping out before you catch yourself. The sound barely escapes, but it’s enough to make you freeze. You jerk back from him, heart pounding in your chest.
From the look on his face, he didn’t hear it. Or if he did, he’s pretending not to, but you feel the heat rising in your cheeks, flooding your body. The flush spreads down your neck, over your skin, and you can’t stop it.
“We’ll…get through this,” Bob says, agreeing with your earlier words.
“Y-yeah,” you stutter out, still feeling the heat spreading throughout your body.
Then, as if his panicked brain finally catches up to the situation, Bob’s eyes flick over your form, and his eyes widen just a little when he realises you’re topless, wearing nothing but your bra. His face flushed with embarrassment, and in an instant, he looks away, his cheeks turning a shade of red at the fact that he had just hugged you in this state. Like the gentleman he is, he immediately averts his gaze, trying to give you some privacy.
“Oh. I uh, you should take my sweater.”
“Oh, it’s okay, I–”
Both of you nervously bumble until Bob starts taking off his sweater. The entire thing plays in slow motion. His hands, a little shaky, reach for the hem. The fabric bunches up in his fingers before he slowly pulls it over his head.
Bit by bit, his chest and torso are revealed. You can’t help but notice the definition of his muscles and appreciate them greatly. Finally, he hands the sweater to you, his expression nervous but kind. “Here…” he says softly, not looking you directly in the eyes.
Damn it.
He’s ripped.
You didn’t know when you woke up this morning that you’d be treated to an impromptu striptease courtesy of Bob Reynolds. You can’t believe all of that was hiding under that knitted sweater. There’s a sudden wave of arousal so strong it almost knocks you clean off your feet. Your eyes wander his sculpted form, and it’s like every part of him was made to drive you crazy. You know you’re staring, but you can’t bring yourself to look away.
“So… how are we planning on taking back my office?” Your words come out breathy, your eyes are still very much fixed on his body, but he seems oblivious to the fact.
“Maybe we can…” He trails off, distracted by the way you were starting to sway, “Hey, are you alright?”
He had now started to become clued into the way you were staring him down like he was a full-course meal. And you’re just happy he couldn’t read your mind because you were thinking the most unhinged things, like how you wanted to lick the sweat off his abs.
“Holy fuck,” You mutter tiredly, shaking the thought away. You were a doctor, damn it, not a degenerate. Or at least not both at the same time.
“Yeah, I’m just…” You start a sentence that you can’t finish as your body continues to heat up and your desire for him starts to hurt. You just want to be closer to him, and the overwhelming need to touch his abs comes back in full force. You try to focus on something else but just land on his arms and you wondered how’d they feel wrapped around your waist when he’d fuck you.
“Fuck!”
You start pacing around the room, trying to get rid of this madness that seemed to be overtaking you. And by pacing it was more of an awkward stumble as bit by bit your limbs turned to rubber and your brain to mush with horny thoughts of Bob.
You stop moving and drop to the floor, hugging your knees and squeezing your eyes shut. Maybe if you cannot see the hot man, he cannot haunt you. You decide to take deep breaths because that always helps, and try to calm yourself down. You are, however, wearing Bob’s sweater, which smells like him and therefore smells like heaven. You moan, definitely loud enough for him to hear and bury your face in it.
“Talk to me,” Bob says as he crouches down by your side, the comforting pats on your back feeling more like kisses on the neck. You just wanted to climb him like he’s a tree and live there forever.
“Need to take this off.”
You start kicking off your trousers as they start to stick to you, feeling more like sandpaper on your skin. Next, you peel off his sweater and hold it in your hands, resting it against your cheek, breathing it in every so often.
“I can’t be near you right now.”
“Why?” He asks and if you had your head on straight, you’d state the obvious. Did he not see the fact that you were seconds away from grinding on him?
But you did have to think about what caused this, and there’s only one theory that makes sense.
“I think the plant you got is a sex plant.”
Bob blinks at you.
“A what?”
While falling down an internet rabbit hole, you had heard about plants like these with certain properties that lent themselves quite nicely to certain activities. These properties including sex pollen that seemed to only affect you and not him. At a later date, you’d love to run some tests to see why. Maybe it was something in the serum he was given that made him immune to certain things. But all logical thought was being dropkicked out the window right about now, replaced with the need to fuck yourself silly on his dick.
You explain to him the whole sex plant thing as best as you can without going feral. The need to have his hands all over your body was becoming near next to unbearable.
“Why do you know this?”
“God forbid a woman is informed,” You sigh as you fan yourself with the sleeve of his sweater, more of his scent wafting into your face, making you more hungry for him than ever.
“So, how do we fix this?” He asks, desperate to help you out.
“I can just wait it out,” you suggest, knowing full well you couldn’t “wait it out”. Each second that passed was a second not spent bouncing on Bob’s cock which was a second wasted in your opinion. But this was Bob, your Bob, you didn’t want sex pollen induced horniness to reduce your friendship to rubble. You could see it now. Things would never be the same. No more book chat over morning coffee or late night milkshake runs and you’d be damned if you lost them.
“You’re burning up.” He places his hand against your forehead, and you whimper at the contact, shocking you both.
“Tell me, what will fix this?” He repeats.
It’s clear that there’s no avoiding it, so you tell him.
“...sex.”
There’s a heavy silence in the room, only accompanied by the background noise of the plant going on a rampage in your office. It was obvious, sex plant, therefore sex will alleviate the effects of said plant but saying it out loud didn't make it any easier.
“But I won’t ask that of you. I won’t,” You say firmly.
Did you want him? Yes, you wanted him bad. Ever since his floppy-haired, doe-eyed, cute self came in for his first check-up. But you didn’t want it under such dire circumstances, with a sex crazed plant trying to knock the door down. You wanted it to mean something. You wanted to know that he liked you as much as you like him.
You watch as Bob’s expression shifts, his eyes narrowing slightly as if coming to a decision. There’s something in his gaze, something vulnerable but strong at the same time, like he’s finally deciding to take a step forward.
“You’re not asking, I’m offering,” he says firmly. “I don’t want to see you in pain like this.”
You shake your head, the words he says sinking in, but the effects of the sex pollen make it hard to respond.
“I can’t have sex with you like this. It’s not fair on you,” you finally manage, your voice quiet, almost defeated.
Bob’s face softens, his eyes flickering with understanding and something deeper. He steps closer, his tone gentler but unwavering. “It’s worth it if it helps you. You’re hot and shivering. What kind of friend would I be if I let you suffer?”
The sincerity in his words hits you hard. You feel your throat tighten, fighting back the wave of emotion threatening to spill over. You’ve always known Bob cared about you, but hearing that he was willing to do this for you was something else.
“Bob…” Your voice breaks slightly, but you push through it.
He stops himself then, looking away for a moment, his own vulnerability creeping to the surface. "I care about you. I…" He trails off, a deep breath escaping him as if he's preparing himself for what’s to come. “I like you.”
You're struggling to find the words as the one thing you’ve been wanting to hear is finally said.
“You like me?”
Bob looks down, his eyes shifting nervously, afraid that he might be ruining everything.
“I like you too,” You admit. “You have no idea how much.”
Not wanting the moment to pass you by, you cup his face and kiss him like you’ve never kissed anyone before. The kiss is desperate and needy, your hands gliding over his body with such urgency. All that pent-up need and tension came out in this one kiss. You cling onto each other like kissing is the last thing you’ll ever do.
You pull back, looking at him, his cheeks slightly flushed, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” You ask, your voice a mix of uncertainty and hope.
Instead of responding, he pulls you back in, his hands gentle but insistent, bringing you closer once more. Then, before you can say anything else, he lays you back down on the floor, his body hovering over yours.
“Does that answer your question?” he whispers, before leaning back in, his lips brushing against yours once more.
You smile into the kiss and wrap your legs around his waist from beneath him.
You shiver as his hands travel up your back, his fingers finding the clasp of your bra. It’s clumsy at first, fumbling with the hooks, the fabric catching between his fingers.
“Oh yeah, this one’s a nightmare to take off,” you comment, remembering the countless times you’d try to undo the clasps before giving up and just pulling it over your head instead. You chuckle lightly at the memory, tension easing for just a second.
“I think I almost got it,” he says, determination in his voice. Finally, after a few more attempts, he gets the clasp undone, tossing it aside with a small sigh of relief.
You feel a warmth spread through you, as look up at him.
“You’re perfect,” he says softly, his lips finding their way to your neck. The way he touches you, the way his hands move, everything feels electric, like every little action is charged with more meaning than you ever expected.
His hands wander down towards your panties next, rubbing at your core through them. He can feel that you’ve already soaked through them, your desperation no laughing matter.
He knows that because you immediately trap his hand between your thighs and start lifting your hips to rub against it.
His eyes widen as he watches you roll your hips, so completely wrecked, and you’d barely even gotten started. This was a whole new side of you that he could get used to.
“You need to let go of my hand for me to touch you,” Bob says, and you reluctantly do, only because you know he’s gonna give you something better.
He pulls off your panties and is met with the most beautiful sight.
“You’re so wet,” he comments spreading open your dripping pussy and flicking at your clit.
He slowly inserts his fingers and smiles at how easily they slip in. “You can take two already,” he says and almost in awe as your walls clench around him. You’re mewling and twitching with every swipe of his fingers, your wetness spilling around them. His fingers are so thick and he stretches you out so good, you wonder how your own fingers ever felt like enough.
“So good,” You whine out, and he feels encouraged to ever stop making you feel like this.
He curls them inside of you, brushing against your sensitive spot over and over again, making you squeal. You start to squirm, but he holds you still, his thigh and spare hand keeping you spread open for him.
He starts reassuring you with soothing circles on your thigh, “Right there?”
You blink away the haze and nod, “Yeah, keep going.”
He repeats his actions, his fingers threatening to bring you to an orgasm so fast that you’re almost embarrassed.
“Need you so bad,” You whisper as you thrust back against his fingers, desperate to have more of him. You’d take his whole fist if he’d give it to you.
“I need more than just your fingers.”
He looks up at you. This was a huge step, but one you were both ready to take.
“Condom?”
“I’m on birth control,” You say, and thankfully, you were. It’s not like you had a condom on you; they were in your purse, which was in the room with the raging tentacle monster.
He pulls off his jeans and boxers and he’s left exposed in front of you. He feels vulnerable, but he knows he can trust you.
“Ready?” You ask him and he replies with a breathy, “Yeah,” before laying a sweet kiss on your forehead.
He lines ourself up with your hole, which is actively trying to suck him in and pushes into you slowly. The relief of feeling him inside of you is so good, the sound of his moans as he bottoms out inside of you is just as good.
He starts thrusting into you deeply, as you grip his shoulders. It felt better than anything you’ve ever done with anyone else. It was partly the sex pollen, but more than anything, it was because it was him. You were finally with him after months upon months of pining. Finally able to feel his skin beneath your fingertips, to hear his moans vibrate against your skin, to lean his forehead against yours as he ruts into you. It was slow but passionate, as you finally confirmed how you both feel about each other.
You feel like you were on another planet, but you wanted to experience every part of this man, so you whisper in his ear, “Wanna ride you.”
You’ve never seen him move so fast, in seconds you’re sitting up right, warming his cock as his lips attacking your neck.
You’re about to start moving when he stops you.
“Just a second.”
You sit there, desperate to feel him moving inside you, but if he says to wait, then you’ll wait. He cups one of your boobs in his hands and his tongue flicking around your areola just enough to tease you.
“Bob…” You whine out, and he smiles up at you, and it’s one of his dopey smiles that makes your heart melt. Then as if you couldn’t feel any more sensitive, he starts sucking on your nipple, his eyes closed in pure focus and concentration. You fully scream, your legs quivering and walls fluttering around his cock. His tongue was working overtime, and you felt like you could come undone with just this.
“You’re gonna kill me,” You cry out as you pull closer by his hair.
“You’re so dramatic,” He laughs before going back to his ministrations, determined to make you lose your mind.
“Just like that,” You cry out as you wrap your arms around his neck. You shake and tremble so much that you just have to start riding him. Your hips seem to have a mind of their own.
Bob rests his head in the crook of your neck as you work his cock up and down btweeen your folds. “You feel so good.” His voice is shaky and needy as he’s unable to do anything but give in to the pleasure you’re giving him. His legs were shaking with how good it felt, and it was an ego boost to say one thing.
“Wait a second,” he says before he holds your hips up and starts thrusting up into you from below, giving you everything he’s got.
“Oh Bob…”
The feeling is so overwhelming that you start to cry, tears flowing down your cheeks, each one showing just how good he was giving it to you. But seeing your tears, he stops immediately, wiping them from your eyes. “Are you okay? Do you want me to stop?”
His eyebrows are furrowed with a concern plastered on his face, worried that he had hurt you.
You shake your head profusely, “Keep going. I’m crying because it feels so good.”
“Yeah?”
With some renewed confidence, he continues thrusting into you, and it’s your turn to rest your head against his neck.
He whispers against your ear, “You feel so good.”
“Wanna turn around for me?”
“O-okay,” You stutter out, your mind half in the clouds as he spins you around and you land back on his dick, reverse cowgirl.
“Holy shit,” he says as he starts pounding into you again. You feel him so deep inside of you, you never want him to leave.
You feel him gripping onto your ass so you imagine the view must be good.
“Harder?”
“Yes, fuck please,” You reply immediately. The way he was thrusting up inside of you had you crying out for mercy, and if he wanted to go harder, you’d let him. He picks up the pace, and the sound of his skin slapping against yours is music to your ears.
“So good, you’re such…” He stops for a moment, and you can hear him hesitate, but you suppose his internal thoughts won out as he finishes his sentence, “Such a good girl.”
And you’d be lying if those words, escaping his lips, in his voice, didn’t make you want to explode.
Then he slows down before pulling out of you, you’re about to whine and complain, but he intercepts that.
“Can you hold onto me?” He asks, and you do it immediately, desperate to feel him on you again. You suddenly feel yourself being lifted into the air, and you wrap your legs around his waist. He effortlessly lifts you over and lays you down on an examination table.
He lines himself up with your whole again and thrusts right into it, not holding back one bit. Your body is shaking and trembling with each thrust, and you’re screaming his name with each one.
“So good, so good,” he repeats like a mantra, like he can’t think of anything else but you.
He lifts your hips, tilting your pelvis and hitting your G-spot dead on, and you almost choke on your spit. You’re not even sure what comes out of your mouth; you just know it’s not of this world. You head lolls to the side as you drool for his cock to be fed deeper into you.
“Right there, right there, right…”, You bluster out before being cut off by your own scream.
You weren’t going to last much longer; in fact, you’re surprised you lasted this long. You just needed one final thing to put you over the edge.
“B-bob. Put…put your hand here,” You say guiding his hand above your stomach and bite your lip as he presses down feeling his cock inside of you.
“I’m gonna—” You sob before you’re cumming harder than you ever have, calling out for Bob all the while. Bob holds onto your bucking hips as he watches you squirt on his cock. The orgasm that hits you is blinding, your toes curl, your fists tighten, and tears fall from your eyes.
You are gone.
You’re only brought back to your senses by Bob saying your name and soft kisses on your face. When he sees you’re responsive, he smiles and starts brushing your hair off your face. But then you realise, he’s stopped moving and you absolutely can’t have that. You can still feel him pulsing inside of you and you needed him to cum.
“Keep going,” you mumble.
“Hm?”
You sit up closer to you, your fingers gripping his back.
“Keep going until you’re done with me.”
You needed this, you needed him. You wanted him to fuck you so hard that your pussy remembered him, you wanted him to fill you up so much that just the smell of him would bring you to your knees and that wasn’t just the sex pollen talking.
“I think I can do this day,” Bob says and that he does. He fucks you against the wall, the window, on the floor, if he had control of his Sentry powers he probably would’ve fucked you in the air too. By the time you’re done, the sex pollen has been well and truly pounded out of your system.
But your troubles aren’t over.
The plant knocks down the door with an ominous thud. Menacingly slithering over to the two of you, now triple in size, each tentacle blogger that the last, and you’re ready to accept your fate. This is how you would go out. Fucked to death by a plant.
The plant starts prodding at you both a tiny bit before pulling back away from you, much to your surprise. Obviously sensing its job was done, it reverts back to its original form in a matter of seconds and sits innocently in its pot.
You guess your troubles are over.
“So…can I be your boyfriend?” He asks and you laugh, “What do you think?”
Bob’s face lights up with a grin, and he kisses your cheek, “I think there’s a mess waiting for us in your office.”
“Well, couples that clean together stay together.”
Snuggling into his embrace, you let out a sigh of contentment. Nothing could ruin this day, not when you’d finally made Bob your man.
But, in the distance, you hear the shuffling of footsteps as the team has arrived back from their mission. You hear a faint, “What the fuck?” seemingly from Walker seeing the havoc the plant made but you’re too content in Bob’s arms to care. You’re exactly where you want to be.
“Listen here, Captain Suburbia,” you sneer. “Anyone with two functioning eyes could see your kid bodychecked mine like it was hockey practice.”
“Well, the ref didn’t see it that way. So move on,” he snaps back without missing a beat.
“Absolutely not! This is about accountability.”
“There’s no need to give my kid a red card just because your kid—” John starts, hands gesturing like he's trying to explain away a traffic ticket.
“Don’t even finish that sentence,” you fire back, jabbing a finger at his chest. “If you even imply that she was overreacting, I swear I’ll—”
He holds up his hands, that smug look never leaving his face. “Hey, relax. Just saying, maybe things wouldn’t get so dramatic if you stayed on your side of the field.”
You narrow your eyes. “Funny, I was just thinking the same about you.”
Or
You and John's kids are in the same soccer league, and after you get into an argument on the field over your kids, you start seeing him everywhere. It's hate at first sight.
Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, hair pulling, mirror sex, oral sex (female receiving), p in v sex, breeding kink, sexual overstimulation, John Walker is a biter, No Superhero AU!, slow burn, enemies to lovers, dead spouse (I killed off his wife oop), John being a good dad, Ava Starr cameo
A/N: I feel like John would be one of those dads who's coaching from the sidelines at their kids' game, so I wrote this. I'm also obsessed with him right now so expect more fics
ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎
Some might call you intense or insane.
A little crazy, definitely.
There’s a fire in you, always has been, and when it comes to your daughter, you didn’t play around. Every aspect of her life was important to you, especially her Saturday morning soccer games.
Though you didn’t know what intense was until you saw that dickhead across the field. Blonde hair, a trimmed beard, built like he probably hits the gym four times a week. His biceps flexed under his white shirt every time he threw his arms up at the ref, which, to be fair, was often.
If he weren’t so obnoxious, you might even find him hot, but you totally don’t find him hot. He was pumped up, red in the face, and just as invested in the game as you were. Pacing like a coach who got fired but still showed up anyway. He was shouting directions, clapping like his kid was about to be scouted, and cheering like it was the World Cup and not just a rec league game on a patchy field behind a middle school.
He was showing you up, so you started cheering louder for your kid. Because if this is a competition, you're damn well not losing it.
“That’s it, Lily! Give ‘em hell!” You shout, your daughter just smiles at you and goes back to playing, used to your competitive nature.
The man takes notice of you and looks at you like he isn’t also acting like a lunatic before cheering even louder. That rubbed you the wrong way. What gave him the right to look at you like you were the problem?
Then it happens.
You watch as your daughter gets slide-tackled for no reason.
And the ref? Doing fuck all about it.
“What was that call, ref?” you shout, already on your feet.
“I—” the ref starts, backing up as you approach.
You trudge towards him, angry but trying to maintain a look of composed fury, like you weren't two seconds from setting the field on fire.
The ref was used to your antics, and now every time he saw you storming towards him, he’d be sure that he’d be going home with a headache.
“No yellow or red card? She got slide-tackled,” you bark.
“It’s—”
“She didn’t even have the ball!” you snap, the words ripping out of you like they’ve been waiting. You’re so fired up, so high on rage and love and disbelief, you swear you could take flight.
“It was an accident, so there’s no need for that,” a voice cuts in, calm and condescending in the worst possible way.
You turn, and it’s him, the guy from across the field. The look on his face, the matter-of-fact tone, the casual smugness oozing off him like cologne. You hate him instantly. It was that easy.
“I’m guessing that was your son that ran over my daughter,” you say, each word clipped like you’re trying not to launch them at his face.
“Ran over?” he snorts. “Talk about an exaggeration.”
“It’s soccer, these things happen. You don’t have to throw a tantrum just because your kid's team is down two,” he adds, smirking like he thinks this is witty banter and not a declaration of war.
You scoff, hands on hips, already stepping into his space. The ref backs off like a man realising he’s standing between two charging bulls. This wasn’t a sideline spat; this was two planets colliding, and he wanted no part of the fallout.
“Listen here, Captain Suburbia,” you sneer. “Anyone with two functioning eyes could see your kid bodychecked mine like it was hockey practice.”
“Well, the ref didn’t see it that way. So move on,” he snaps back without missing a beat.
“Absolutely not! This is about accountability.”
“There’s no need to give my kid a red card just because your kid—” John starts, hands gesturing like he's trying to explain away a traffic ticket.
“Don’t even finish that sentence,” you fire back, jabbing a finger at his chest. “If you even imply that she was overreacting, I swear I’ll—”
He holds up his hands, that smug look never leaving his face. “Hey, relax. Just saying, maybe things wouldn’t get so dramatic if you stayed on your side of the field.”
You narrow your eyes. “Funny, I was just thinking the same about you.”
“That’s it! Take this off the field,” the ref finally blurts, hands up, voice cracking. “The kids have a match to play!”
You exhale sharply and hard through your nose, fists clenched at your sides. You try to calm yourself down, jaw tight, heart pounding. You sit and look out at your daughter, brushing grass off her knees and already back in position.
She's tougher than you give her credit, but that didn’t change the fact that you wanted to put that guy’s head in the ground.
After the game, her team, the Honeybees, lost after a few missed goals and lots of questionable calls, but your daughter was still laughing with her friends, unfazed in the way only kids can be.
You, however, were still stewing in quiet indignation when you spotted the world’s biggest jackass, in your humble, entirely accurate opinion, making his way toward you.
“Oh. It’s you,” you say, arms crossed automatically.
“I just wanted to congratulate you on your loss,” he says, all fake sincerity, like he wasn’t two seconds away from being shoved into a juice box cooler.
“How mature.”
“I try,” he replies with that same maddening, self-satisfied grin.
You narrow your eyes, ready for whatever condescending nonsense he might say next. If he says “good effort”, you’re swinging. Choosing not to let him fuck with you, you tell him what’s what.
“Your team only won because of the ref’s bad calls,” you say, arms still crossed, tone sharp enough to slice fruit.
“Oh really?” he replies, lifting an eyebrow like he’s genuinely amused. Like this is his idea of foreplay.
“Yeah. My kid was dynamite out there.”
“So was mine,” he says back instantly.
“I mean, sure, but my kid has the most assists on her team,” you say, trying to keep your cool, even as your voice edges higher.
“Assists,” he echoes, nodding slowly. “Not goals.”
You blink at him. “Are we seriously doing this?”
“I’m not doing anything,” he says with mock innocence, hands raised like he’s never been petty in his life.
You press your lips together, biting your tongue so hard it might bruise. You didn’t want to, you really didn’t want to, but it slips out anyway.
“My kid can out-pass, out-hustle, and outplay any other kid on that field.”
He grins like he’s been waiting for this.
“Well, my kid can run circles around your kid while tying his cleats.”
Your jaw drops slightly. “Alright then, my kid was able to run a full field drill without missing a pass when she was five.”
“Well, mine could do cone drills backwards while coaching his teammate through theirs.”
Your eye twitches at that and he delights in seeing you so bothered.
“Lily has a killer left foot and once scored a hat trick with a stomach bug.”
“And Tommy is a human wall on defence.”
“Oh, please. Lily once did a bicycle kick and landed on her feet. What’s Tommy got?” You say, crossing your arms.
“Perfect attendance and a clean penalty record.”
You wanted to roll your eyes at ‘clean penalty record’ but you keep it moving.
“Lily brings orange slices for the whole team.”
“Tommy brings strategy diagrams and pep talks.”
You pause, blinking. “Are we… bragging about how nice our kids are now?”
“Seems like it.”
You both go quiet for a beat, then he adds with a smirk, “Still doesn’t mean your kid’s better. I think you should admit to defeat.”
You step forward, just enough to make a point. “I’ll admit defeat when the Honeybees start losing because of their own mistakes, not because your future linebacker throws elbows like he’s in a bar fight.”
He actually laughs, and it’s a little too charming for your liking. Before you can wrestle with what that means, you hear a voice.
“Dad!” his son calls from across the field, waving dramatically. “Hurry up, you promised we’d get ice cream!”
He glances over his shoulder, then looks back at you with that same smug glint in his eye.
“Again, enjoy your loss,” he says, already turning. “And get used to it. The season’s still young.”
You narrow your eyes. “Until next time, Captain Suburbia.”
He chuckles and starts to walk away, but pauses, turns back with a smirk plastered on his face.
“John,” he says. “My name is John.”
ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎
“Uh, what are you doing?”
“Hiding.”
“From?” Your friend, Ava, says as she looks around for the apparent danger.
“John.”
Ever since that day, you were livid with the dickhead you knew as John Walker. You had never hated someone so much from just one meeting. You never wanted to see him again, but you did while shopping.
Ava takes a peek, “Oh, the hot soccer dad? Which one is he?”
You never described him as hot but Ava figured from the way you were kidding your mind over him, you thought he was.
“Blonde, beard, tall and wearing a blue shirt.”
Ava sees him in the fruit and veg aisle and hums in approval, “Is he single? He’s right up your alley, no?”
You nudge her arm. “I don’t know. I mean, I didn't see him with anyone at the game…” You say your voice drifting off before you're back to your senses. “Whether or not he's single is irrelevant! He’s a complete asshole.”
“Just because he's an asshole doesn’t mean he’s not good in bed.”
The death glare you give her is intense and could be considered lethal, but she laughs it off.
“Let’s be honest, if you weren’t attracted to him, you wouldn’t be so riled up.”
“Oh, please, I’m not into evil blonde men.”
Is he hot? Yes. But his evilness outweighs the hotness.
“Well, the evil blonde man is coming your way.”
You look towards the end of the aisle to see that Ava was right, so you immediately duck down behind a tower of soup cans.
“Please come out from over there,” Ava whispers but you protest, hoping you can camouflage yourself and become one with the cans.
Ten seconds pass, and you hear your name in that familiar voice and know you’ve been caught.
“Oh. Hi.”
Your attempt at being nonchalant is honestly pitiful, but not more pitiful than him knowing you were hiding from him.
“Don’t mind me, go back to whatever this is,” He says, gesturing to your hunched-over, goblin-like stance. He reaches over you and grabs a can off the shelf, walking off without another word.
“See? No need to panic. He was perfectly civil,” Ava chimes in.
“Only because he caught me in a state of weakness. He has the upper hand, and he’s already plotting against me. I can feel it.”
“He’s a soccer dad, not a supervillain,” Ava sighs, helping you off the floor, concerned about the effect he was having on you, but then again, she was always concerned about you. You regularly lose your mind at your daughter’s soccer games so she has just cause.
“I need to grab the wine, I’ll meet you at the checkout,” Ava says, and you nod, letting her walk off.
You had to circle back around to get the limited edition coffee you had become obsessed with anyway. You get to the aisle and your eyes widen when you realise that there’s only one left. Your hand flies to grab it, you can already imagine it in your trolley, and it looks good. It looks happy, like it's ready to be at home in your pantry.
But at the same time, another hand wraps around it, the hand belonging to John, because fate was still playing in your face.
“You.”
You thought you were done with him for the day. Clearly, the universe had other plans.
John raises an eyebrow, not letting go. “Come on. Be a gentleman and give it to me,” You say, trying to force a smile.
Your grip tightens, so does his.
“I don’t think so,” he says smoothly, as if he weren’t just on the verge of sparking a full-blown aisle standoff. “It’s the last one.”
“I know.”
“I’ll have to go across town for another,” You say, your eyebrows knitting together.
“Cry about it.”
You tug on it a little, but he doesn’t budge. The item wobbles dangerously between your hands.
“Are you even trying?” he asks. He was so good at being a smug bastard, you wonder if he was born like this or if he honed this craft. You open your mouth to really let him have it, but you don’t even get the chance.
Without another word, he snatches it clean from your hand in one smooth move, drops it into his trolley like he just won Olympic gold, and starts walking away, whistling.
You stand there, mildly offended but mostly impressed.
“Oh no, you did not just—” you march after him.
“Too slow, sweetheart,” he calls over his shoulder without turning around. “Better luck next time.”
“I hope it’s expired!” you shout after him.
You stop walking and watch as he struts off with your coffee like he was the King of Aisle Seven, you were planning his downfall in at least three different ways.
And two of them involved shopping carts.
After the grocery store incident, you were looking forward to having a reprieve from John Walker. But it was like fate or something more evil was forcing the two of you together. You have a PTA meeting the next night, and who do you see there but John, who was now becoming a permanent fixture in your life.
You sigh and sit beside the only empty seat, which was next to him.
“Let’s not even speak,” You suggest you say as soon as your butt hits the seat.
“Fine with me,” John replies as he crosses his arms, looking away from you.
You sit there tapping your foot. It was almost painful being silent when everyone else was having conversations. Especially when you were next to a thief. You didn’t even get the opportunity to yell at him properly for swiping your coffee.
You finally break, “What you did yesterday was shitty.”
“And I thought we weren’t going to speak.”
“I’ll be sick if I don’t call out injustice when I see it.”
John laughs, and you want to strangle him. “You’re still thinking about that? I’m constantly on your mind, aren’t I?”
You shift in your seat, feeling the heat climbing up the back of your neck. How dare he even suggest that? Yes, you were thinking about him, but only about all the ways you wanted to destroy him.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snap under your breath.
The meeting starts before he can muster up a comeback. You catch yourself zoning out as the agenda drags on, filled with tedious updates about the bake sale and a desperate plea for chaperones for the 3rd-grade trip to Lake Maribelle.
You swing your leg absentmindedly and accidentally bump his shin. It’s genuinely an accident.
“Did you just kick me?” he whispers.
“Well, maybe if you weren’t taking up half the space with your big—”
“You’re unbelievable—” He interrupts, turning his body to face you.
“Gangly legs, then you wouldn’t have gotten hit,” You whisper your sentence over his.
Your whispered bickering is only interrupted by the teacher at the front calling both your names.
“You’ll help chaperone the trip to Lake Maribelle?”
With all those expectant eyes on you, how could either of you say no?
“Yeah…”
“Of course…”
You both reply sheepishly at the same time.
“Great, I’ll sign the two of you up.”
ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎
Stepping onto the bus, you watch as Lily disappears to go sit with her friend, leaving you with a slight pang of loneliness. You head to the front and slump into your seat, next to who else but John, because you can’t even be surprised. You really needed to start arriving at places earlier to avoid sitting next to him, but here you were.
It’s a four-hour ride, and you can already feel your exhaustion creeping in. You try to keep yourself alert, but your eyes are heavy. Before you know it, your head tilts to the side, falling onto his shoulder.
John glances down at you, noticing how tired you look. He’s always been perceptive like that. He doesn’t say anything at first, just shifts slightly to give you more space. But when he feels you drift further, he gently shifts, adjusting his posture. His shoulder feels like a small slice of comfort amidst the exhaustion.
He lets you use his shoulder the whole ride. You looked quite peaceful when you weren’t trying to rip his head off, quite beautiful too. John catches the thought and tosses it out. He couldn’t be caught slipping, you were his mortal enemy after all.
The bus reaches the camp, and suddenly, it jerks to a stop. Your head flies forward, but before you can react, John’s hand shoots out, catching your forehead in the palm of his hand just in time.
“Thanks,” you mumble, a little embarrassed but too tired to really care.
He just hums in response, his fingers lightly grazing your skin for just a second longer than necessary. “Quick reflexes.”
Hoping off the bus, you notice the camp leaders waiting to greet the kids. You stand off to the side ensuring everyone gets off the bus when you notice one of the teachers, Miss. Lucas, sidling up next to John, laughing a little too loudly at something he barely said. Your eyes narrow without even realising it, and your fist subconsciously tightens. It’s like a sudden surge of irritation hits you.
The worst part is that you don’t even know why you're so bothered. You’re pretty sure it's just your general distaste for him as a person, and anything he does seems to irritate you. That felt like the easiest explanation. No need to dig deeper into that nagging feeling in your chest, like someone’s poking it with a stick. You shake it off, willing yourself to focus on something else, anything else.
After you get the kids all settled in for the first activity, though, it hits you like a ton of bricks. The exhaustion. You’re winded in a way you don’t remember being before. You try to shake it off, but it’s clear that you’ve reached your limit for the day. This trip wasn’t as easy as you thought it would be, and now, even a simple walk feels like you’ve run a marathon.
You take a deep breath, looking around for a moment to regain your composure. There's no need to make a bigger deal out of it. Just power through, you tell yourself. But it’s harder than you expected, and you can’t help but wonder if it’s more than just the physical exhaustion that's weighing on you.
But at least John was out of sight. You didn’t have to see him on the nature walk or the obstacle course, but you’d have to supervise the canoeing together. You make it out there first, sitting on the dock as the kids are getting in the canoes with the instructors. A smile tugs at your lips as you see how excited Lily is, her face lighting up as she waits for her turn, then spotting you in the crowd. She waves enthusiastically, and you wave back, your heart swelling just a little at the sight of her so happy.
“Nice day out,” John says, looking out at the water. You’re shaken to your core. Not just because you didn’t hear him walk up, but because of what he said. What was this? A normal conversation starter?
You open your mouth to respond, but you're cut off by Miss. Lucas' syrupy voice slicing through the moment like a dull butter knife.
“It really is, and John, you really should wear sunglasses. With how blue your eyes are, the way the sun hits them is just distracting,” she purrs, twirling a lock of her overly straightened hair.
It’s laced with flirtation and just enough condescension to make your skin crawl.
You roll your eyes — hard.
John notices.
“What? You don’t like the sun?” he asks, amused now, that sharp gaze flicking to you like he already knows he’s poking the bear.
“I like the sun,” you answer evenly.
“Then what were you rolling your eyes at, huh?”
You’re so tempted to say exactly what’s on your mind. To call out Miss. Lucas’s thinly veiled thirst trap of a compliment, but you catch yourself. The last thing you need is her holding some petty grudge against Lily over adult nonsense.
So instead, you force a too-sweet smile and say, “None of your business.”
He chuckles, clearly entertained.
Miss. Lucas doesn’t seem to notice any of it. She’s still lingering like a wasp at a picnic.
John tilts his head, a grin still playing at his lips. “Touchy.”
Stepping into your space, he does that thing, that infuriating thing, where he leans in just enough to make your breath hitch but not enough to break any rules.
You guys just couldn’t seem to be near each other without someone stepping over the invisible line.
“And you’re observant,” you shoot back, voice low. “Someone might think you’re a little obsessed.”
His brow lifts. “Is that right?”
“You know what? I’m sorry, I'm being rude. Let me ask you this,” you say, your voice sweet and dangerous all at once, “Do you like water?”
“What kind of question is—?”
Splash.
He never finishes.
You shove him clean off the dock, and he crashes into the freezing lake with a satisfying crash. A few heads turn at the sound, followed by laughter, mostly from the kids.
John surfaces, sputtering, slicking his hair back with both hands as he glares up at you like a betrayed golden retriever.
“It’s freezing!” he shouts.
“Oh no,” you gasp dramatically, hand to your chest. “Is it? I had no idea.”
He blinks the water from his eyes, slow and deliberate, before gripping the edge of the dock with both hands and pulling himself up in one smooth, effortless motion.
It’s… a problem.
You might hate the man, scratch that, you definitely hate the man, but God help you, he had the audacity to look good doing literally anything. The sunlight caught the drops of water rolling down his arms, his shirt plastered to the ridges of his abs and the degenerate part of your brain wanting to see them with his shirt off.
His hair dripped, tousled and messy in a way that looked too perfect to be accidental. It was like watching someone climb out of a cologne commercial.
You bite your lip instinctively, then immediately cover it up with a cough and a scowl.
He strides toward you, soaking wet, every squelching footstep a declaration of petty war. You’re forced to crane your neck to meet his eyes as he stops in front of you.
“You’re lucky,” he says, water still dripping from his sleeves, “that one of us knows how to act like an adult.”
You raise your eyebrows, lips twitching despite yourself. “You sure it’s you?”
He huffs a humourless laugh, then turns and walks down the dock toward the cabins, leaving behind a trail of wet footprints and a hundred silent thoughts you’re too proud to say out loud.
You watch him go and tell yourself it’s because you want to see if there’s the off chance he falls in.
Definitely not because of the view.
You’re watching your back the rest of the day, fully expecting some form of petty revenge. A frog in your shoe, a cold fish under your pillow, maybe even your toothbrush mysteriously tasting like lake water. But nothing happens.
No pranks. No payback.
You’re in the clear.
Now, sitting by the campfire, the sky a hazy lavender above the treeline, things feel… calm. The kids are running wild around the open field, fireflies blinking to life as marshmallows roast and someone strums a guitar softly in the distance.
“Hi,” a small voice says beside you.
You turn and see Tommy, John’s son, standing there with a hesitant smile.
“Hey, having fun?” you ask, shifting to make room.
He nods and sits next to you, pulling his knees up to his chest. “The nature walk was pretty cool, and me and my friends loved the obstacle course. And the canoeing was fun too… even though you pushed my dad in the lake.”
You groan lightly, a hand going to your face. “Yeah, about that…”
The guilt hits, a pang of embarrassment. You knew your behaviour was juvenile. Funny, sure, but maybe not your finest moment, especially in front of the kids.
You laugh under your breath and shake your head. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“It was pretty funny,” Tommy admits, “And I know you and my dad have problems.”
You feel even more ashamed that it was bleeding into your kids' lives too.
“My dad can be a lot,” he says, kicking a pebble with the toe of his shoe. “But he’s just… I don’t know. He tries really hard. Especially for me.”
It helped you understand John a little better. The bluster, the sarcasm, the stubborn streak a mile wide… It wasn’t just pride or ego. It was effort. The kind that comes from someone trying to do right, even if it comes out messy. You could appreciate that because you were the same way.
And if he’d raised such a polite kid, then he couldn’t be all bad. Not even close.
“Have you seen him, by the way?” Tommy asks.
“Not lately,” you say, then gesture toward the table behind you. “But you can have some marshmallows while you wait, if you want.”
“Sure!” he says, lighting up as he grabs a stick and starts roasting.
John comes back to see something he wasn't expecting. The bane of his existence, laughing with his son and roasting marshmallows. Tommy didn’t warm up to most people that easily, so when he sees him lighting up with you, his opinion of you shifts. Maybe you weren’t an evil witch.
You still got a bucket of freezing lake water poured over you the next morning, though.
ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎
You’re out running errands, finally—blissfully—alone. Lily’s spending the weekend at your parents' place, which meant you had time to catch your breath, clean without stepping on glitter, and maybe finally recover from the whirlwind that was the school trip.
You understood John better. You still thought he was annoyingly smug, sure, but maybe not completely irredeemable.
But you weren’t getting ahead of yourself. He was still the same cocky asshole you met yelling across a soccer field... right?
Just as you’re mulling that over, tongue in cheek, deciding if you’d imagined all the softness, you feel your car begin to slow down.
“What the—?”
You frown, tapping the gas. Nothing. A few panicked beeps. Then a sputter.
You manage to pull off to the side of the road just as the engine completely gives out, your car coasting to a reluctant stop.
“No, no, no!” you shout, slamming your palms against the steering wheel.
This couldn’t be happening. Not today. Not when you finally had a few hours of peace and you were this close to getting Thai food and going home to binge terrible reality TV.
With a heavy sigh, you get out and open the bonnet, even though you have no idea what you’re looking for. Wires? Steam? A glowing red light labeled you’re screwed?
You’re standing there, staring blankly into the guts of your car, when you hear it, a car slowing down behind you and parking behind you.
You barely glance back, already waving them off. “Thanks, I’m good—”
But then you hear a too-familiar voice say, “Well, that doesn’t look promising.”
Of course.
You turn around slowly.
And there he is.
John Walker, ladies and gentlemen.
“Need a hand?” he asks, already strolling over like he’s been waiting his whole life to rescue you.
“I uh…” You start becasure you’re so tempted to say “I got this” but the moment your eyes look back at whatever the fuck is going on in your car, you sigh.
“Do you have a toolbox?” he’d asked.
“Yeah, it’s in the boot,” you’d said, thinking nothing of it.
Then he came back, popped the hood, and casually peeled his shirt off with a warning: “Don’t read into anything. I just don’t want grease on my shirt.”
“I didn’t say anything,” you replied, a little too quickly.
You didn’t say anything, but that sure as hell didn’t stop you from watching. Because damn. The man was all broad shoulders, and strong arms that had no business looking that good twisting bolts.
You could’ve watched him work all day.
“Try starting it,” he called, interrupting your horny thoughts.
You slid back into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and the engine roared to life. It’s a miracle.
“Thank you, seriously.”
He leaned over the hood, smug smile fully loaded. “No problem. That should get you moving, but you definitely need to take this to a garage. I can come with you, if you want.”
Seeing the way your face contorts, he follows up with an explanation before you start berating him again.
“You’ll need a ride home after, won’t you?”
“Oh, true… I guess I’ll take you up on your offer. I mean as long as I'm not keeping you from Tommy, am I?” You say as you watch him put his shirt back on.
“No, he's at his grandparents’ place.”
“Oh same with Lily,” You admit.
“Guess we have done errands to run together then.”
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You arrive back home in his car and say “Home sweet home,” because you didn’t know what the fuck you were talking baout. Ever since you watched him fix your car, haggle down the price of your repair with the mechanic and drive you home, you’d been in a bit of a daze. A ‘John Walker is the perfect man’ daze to be exact.
“Do you ... wanna come in?” You say, the words escaping you, but what you didn’t expect was his reply.
“Sure.”
You welcome him in, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest as John casually walks around your house.
It was clean, for once and cosy too, filled with little signs of your life with Lily. Pictures lined the walls: school plays, messy birthday parties, soccer games. Her drawings were stuck to the fridge with mismatched magnets.
“This you?” John asks, voice tinged with amusement.
You turn to see him holding a framed photo from the shelf, a younger you, maybe around Lily’s age, standing proudly in a baseball uniform, cap askew and a dirt-smudged grin on your face.
You roll your eyes but smile. “Yeah. I peaked in Little League.”
He chuckles, eyes still on the photo. “You look like you were about to take someone out at home plate.”
“I probably did.”
He glances over at you, that familiar smirk on his face. “Not much has changed then.”
You snort. “Are you calling me aggressive?”
“I’m saying I’d definitely want you on my team,” he replies, setting the photo down gently. “You were a force to be reckoned with, no doubt,” he says with a chuckle.
“Always.”
“Are there more?” he asks, leaning a little closer with that annoyingly charming glint in his eye.
You cross your arms, sitting back a little as you narrow your eyes. “Nuh uh. We are not going through my baby pictures.”
“Yes, we are.”
And five minutes later, you were both on the couch with a photo album spread across your lap.
“You even look like a soccer ball in this one,” he teases, pointing to a photo of you in a puffy striped onesie.
“I bet you were an ugly baby,” you fire back, sticking your tongue out at him.
“I’ll have you know I was adorable. Practically a Gerber baby.”
He flips a page and pauses. “Is this you or Lily?”
“That’s Lily,” you say, your smile softening.
“She looks just like you.”
“I like to call her my twin,” you laugh. “And she hates it.”
Time ticks by, and you barely even notice it. The room has dimmed with the setting sun, shadows creeping in, and a warmth building low in your stomach. You’ve been flipping through photo albums for what must’ve been hours, laughing and teasing each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Then you hear it, John’s stomach growling, loud and unmistakable. You glance at him, and he’s already giving you a sheepish smile. Clearly, you’re both thinking the same thing.
“I was going to order Thai,” he says casually. “If you wanted to stay for dinner.”
You hesitate for only a second. “I’d like that.”
Later, the two of you are curled up on the couch, takeout containers spread between you, Real Housewives playing in the background. The chaotic drama on screen contrasts with the quiet ease between you.
It had been so long since you’d just relaxed like this with someone—someone who wasn’t Ava or Lily. And it felt good. Easy. Right.
“I have a suggestion, feel free to say no.”
“Hit me,” John says, leaning back against the couch, one arm draped over the cushion behind you.
You bite back a grin. “I have a bottle of whiskey that’s begging to be opened. Wanna throw on some music and help me put it out of its misery?”
He lifts an eyebrow, a slow smile creeping onto his face. “Why not?”
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You shouldn’t drink around him. At this point, you were touchy and honestly just saying shit for the sake of saying shit. You’re not too drunk but definitely tipsy enough to say whatever comes to your mind.
“I haven’t seen Tommy’s mom around. Did you guys split up?” you blurt out, half-curious, half-dreading the answer. You feel a drop in the atmosphere as his hands seem to tighten on the glass.
“Sorry, you don’t need to answer. That was weird of me to ask…” You're trying to backtrack as quickly as possible.
“Oh no, it’s okay, she uh,” he says quietly. “She passed a few years ago.”
You pause, your posture softening. “I’m so sorry…”
“It’s alright,” he says, voice low but steady. “Still tough without her, but we manage.”
He glances down, like he’s trying to ground himself before continuing.
“I’d like to say I was a good husband, but I was always away in the army. I could’ve been better before she…” He trails off, eyes now solely focused on the liquid swirling in his glass.
You stay quiet, wanting to listen rather than rush in.
“When I came back from my last tour, she was already sick. But for a while, we were okay. We were happy. Then she got worse. It was hard seeing her like that when she was so full of life. I felt like I had missed so much, and when she…” He pauses again, his voice catching in his throat like he was being choked.
“Tommy’s the only thing that kept me going after. I’m always scared I’ll mess things up with him and miss the important stuff. That I already am.”
He exhales sharply, almost laughing at himself. “Shit. Sorry. I’m rambling.”
“Not at all,” you say gently, shaking your head. “And I can tell you’re a good dad. Anyone can. He's such a sweet kid and he adores you.”
He looks at you then, and for once, there’s no smirk, no one-liner. Just quiet gratitude.
“Thanks,” he says. “That means more than you know.”
You both take another drink, the burn lingering in your throat like something you don’t mind holding onto for a while.
“What about you? I noticed there aren’t any pictures of Lily’s dad around,” he asks, voice softer now, like he’s not just making conversation anymore.
“We got divorced ages ago. He was a total disaster.”
You let out a dry laugh, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
“We got married too young, had Lily, got divorced two years in and… I honestly can’t even remember the last time he showed up for her. No birthday messages, no calls. Nothing.”
You pause, trying not to let the anger twist your words.
“It’s a shame because she’s so amazing,” you add, staring into your glass. “And her dad doesn't give her the time of day and never has. She deserves so much better than that, and I wish I could be everything for her, but I…”
John’s quiet, listening. Really listening, giving you the space that you gave him.
“It’s hard doing it on your own,” you say, looking up at him. “I know you get that.”
He nods slowly, then offers a small, warm smile. “It’s his loss. She’s a kick-ass kid with a pretty kick-ass mom.”
You laugh, the real kind this time.
“I genuinely thought you were about to fight me the day we met,” he says, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips.
You grin. “I was about to fight you.”
“Very hot.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling and, for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel exhausting to let someone in.
“Okay, Mr. Tight-White-Shirt,” you tease, raising an eyebrow.
He smirks instantly. “Ah, so you were ogling me that day.”
Damn. You walked right into that one.
“A woman can’t appreciate the male form?” you say, all mock innocence.
John laughs, shaking his head as he takes another drink. The music shifts, a different song now, low and smooth, some classic jazz number that’s always sounded like warmth and memory and late nights.
You perk up instantly. “John, we have to dance.”
He blinks. “What?”
“C’mon!”
Before he can argue, you’re already pulling him to his feet drunkenly. He hesitates for half a second, then relents because, of course, he does. His hands find your waist, cautious at first, and you wrap your arms around his neck as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I can’t remember the last time I slow danced,” you murmur against his chest.
“Same,” John says quietly. “In all honesty, it was… probably my wedding.”
“Damn, me too,” You let out a low laugh. “Did you go all out?”
“We tried,” he nods. “We had lessons and everything. I remember practising in our tiny apartment, knocking over chairs and swearing a ton.”
She grins. “I bet you were shit.”
John, very much in ‘John’ fashion, gasps. “Correction, I was the shit.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah, and I’m gonna show you. Get ready to be dipped.”
Your eyes widen as you look up at him, suspicion written all over your face. “No way. You’ll drop me.”
He smirks. “I won’t. Trust me. I’m strong and very capable.”
Before you can protest again, he spins you, just fast enough to make your stomach flip. And you squeal, laughing as you come back into his arms.
“See?” he says, proud as hell. “Didn’t hurt a hair on your pretty head.”
You’re still laughing, slightly breathless, heart thudding in your chest for reasons that have very little to do with the dancing.
“I hate to say it,” you murmur, “but that was quite smooth.”
“Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might think you like me.”
You look up at him and realise, you’ve never been this close to him, unless you count getting in his face at a soccer match, but this was different. It was a whole new type of tension.
“Whatever…” you say, but it comes out with no bite. Not even close.
Maybe because you’re tipsy, but under the dim lighting of your living room, with the jazz still murmuring in the background and that stupid, crooked smile on his face.
You reach up, fingers brushing his cheek before you even fully realise what you're doing.
“I like your beard,” you blurt out, your thumb lightly grazing the line of it.
He blinks, surprised, not because of what you said, but because of how gently you said it.
“Yeah?” he says, voice a little quieter now.
He’s not able to get another word out before you’re kissing him, soft and tender. His hands cup your face as he kisses you like there’s a magnet pulling you to him. Your hands roaming over each other’s bodies, hands desperate to touch skin. He lifts you off the floor, your lips not breaking contact. You wrap your legs around his waist and his hands cup your ass as he walks you over to a wall. Pressing you against it and kissing your neck like he’s trying to consume you. “Oh, John…”
Breathing heavily and looking into each other’s eyes.“Upstairs, first door on the right.”
Your back hits the wall again, but gently this time, his lips brushing over yours before pulling back just enough to ask, “You sure?”
You nod, breathless. “Go.”
He carries you like it’s effortless, one hand steady beneath your thigh, the other gripping the bannister as he takes the stairs two at a time.
Reaching the top, he kicks the door open with his foot. The room is dim, the late evening light bleeding through the curtains, but neither of you cares. You pull his shirt over his head and toss it aside. His mouth is on yours again before it hits the ground.
You fall into the bed together, tangled and wild and urgent, but with something else beneath it all. Something tender. Like every kiss and touch is catching up on lost time you didn’t even know you missed.
“Mind if I leave marks?”
“You can,” You gasp out and he goes to work, biting and sucking your skin. In all honesty, your drunk brain needed a memento, a way to remind sober-you that this wasn’t some sex dream.
You feel his strong hands wrap around your wrists, and he squeezes them. Not enough to hurt, but enough for you to feel his presence.
“I want you,” John breathes and it sounds so good hearing it. Like you had both finally done away with pretense and given in to what you wanted to do since you met which was rip your clothes off and fuck eachother senseless.
He starts kissing his way down your body, taking his sweet time in making you feel good. Reveling in the way you react to him.
When he reaches your panties, he doesn’t hesitate to tug them off his teeth and the sight of him doing that nearly kills you.
He starts eating you out like a man possessed, his beard tickling your inner thighs. He needs your pussy on his face and he needs it now. As he licks and sucks, driving you insane, your legs start slowly closing, trying to shy away from how good it felt. He catches them, prying them back open.
“Keep them open for me.”
You nod but he wants more than that.
“Tell me.”
“I’ll keep my legs open for you,” You say and you think you’d do the splits on his face if he wanted.
“Good girl,” he smirks before going back to ruining you. It had been too long since you felt like this, but even then, you had never felt like this. You were feverish and sensitive, fighting to keep yourself sane. You never recall feeling like you were dying of happiness when anyone else had gone down on you. Must be the John Walker effect.
The more you struggle and shake, the more pressure he applies. His hand rests on your stomach to hold you in place as he sucks on your clit.
Feeling the pleasure growing, you instantly try to muffle your moans with your fist. He moves his mouth away from your aching core and reaches up with one of his hands, moving your fist away. You look at him with reverence and surprise.
“You don’t need to hide…” He says, his other hand still moving inside you, “I want to hear you.”
You don’t speak right away. You just look at him, this man who had once driven you absolutely insane, who now felt like the only person who could see through all the armour.
“I’m not used to being seen,” you finally whisper.
“I know,” John says, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. “But I see you.”
He moves back into position between your legs, and you let him have every moan you have.
“John!”
You finish, back arching, legs trembling and clenching down on his head with your thighs so hard you’re scared you might kill him.
But he doesn't stop, instead going faster. “H-hey!” You moan out as you kick your legs around, which he clearly takes as a challenge.
Wrangling your legs and pinning them over your head, your body now in the shape of a backwards C.
“You’re lucky I’m not tying you up,” John comments and you shiver at how good that sounds.
He gets up on his knees, continuing to lick at your trembling folds as he fingers you even faster, adding a third finger that had you moaning in desperation.
It's like he's set your whole body on fire, the feeling of your lost orgasm threatening to push you straight into another one.
“John, it’s so…” You croak, your eyes focusing and unfocusing. “Think I’m gonna cum again.”
At this point, your voice is hoarse, each touch he’s giving you making you scream and cry out like you’ve never done before.
“Yeah? You wanna be a good girl and cum for me?”
You nod, your eyes gassy with tears, “Wanna be your…your good girl.”
You could feel something coming, as he goes back to sucking on your clit, his fingers massaging your G-spot.
It only takes a few moments before you're letting your body relax and squirt all over his fingers, the pleasure washing over you in waves. You’re too undone to make a noise, breathing heavily and choking on air. There are a few seconds where you think you’ve died.
He unfolds you, and you lie back down on the bed, needing him instantly.
“John,” You whine, reaching out for him, and he’s right there, pulling you into his arms and taking care of you.
“What about you?” You ask. He had just about taken you to heaven and believe me you wanted to return the favour.
“Next time.”
Your heart flutters with the thought of a ‘next time’.
“Okay,” You snuggle against him and fall asleep together in pure bliss.
You wake up in the morning, expecting to feel John’s arms around you. But there's no one there. You sit up and look around, but find nothing. No note explaining where he was and his car's no longer in the driveway.
You came to the conclusion, he woke up, saw you and decided that it was a mistake. It was disappointing but you’re used to being disappointed.
So much for ‘I see you’.
So much for ‘next time’.
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The next couple of days are a blur, it’s back to business as usual. Soccer practice, laundry, answering emails with a fake sense of urgency. To anyone else, it seemed like nothing had changed, but not to your daughter.
“I saw Tommy yesterday,” she says casually as she sets her backpack down.
“Oh? How is he?” you ask, trying to sound neutral.
“Great, but his dad didn’t look too happy…”
Your ears perk up at that. He was also miserable? Good. It was his fault anyway… wasn’t it?
“You don’t look happy either.”
You flinch at how blunt she is. You should’ve known, there was no hiding anything from her. She might only be a kid, but she could read you like a book.
“Lily…” you start, but she cuts you off with the maturity of someone far beyond her years.
“Just be adults and talk to him…”
“It's not that simple,” Your voice is shaky with uncertainty. You're not even sure you'd be able to speak if you were face-to-face with him again.
“Well you need to especially since I’m going over to Tommy’s today.”
“You what?” you say, nearly falling out of your chair.
“You said I could,” she adds quickly. “Last week, before… whatever this is.”
Damn it. She was right. You had completely blanked on that. It was before the whole thing with John went bust.
You were conflicted with how you felt about John, but you wouldn’t let your issues affect her.
“Fine, go get your stuff. We leave in five.”
You drive over to his place, your heart dropping lower and lower as you get closer to his house. Your fingers grip your steering wheel like it’s your lifeline.
“You’re not coming in to say hi?” Lily asks almost incredulously.
“I think it’s best I don’t. I’ll be here at 6 to pick you up. Have fun!”
Lily doesn’t say anything at first; she just looks at you, brows raised, lips pursed like she’s debating whether or not to push. Was that what it was like to be on the receiving end of one of your judging looks? You didn't like it one bit.
But in the end, she sighs, unbuckles her seatbelt, and grabs her bag. “You two are so dramatic.”
He sees her first, ruffles her hair, then his gaze shifts past her, locking with yours through the windshield. It only lasts a second, but it’s enough. You look away first.
Then you drive off, trying not to think about him.
Hours pass, John is very much on your mind the entire time, and before you know it, you’re back at his house to pick up Lily. Walking your way up the driveway, you feel your nerves creeping in. You hesitate a second before ringing the doorbell.
“Hey,” John greets you, opening the door—and he looks just as good as the last time you saw him, maybe even better.
“Hey yourself,” you reply awkwardly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.
There's the sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs, and then Tommy appears, greeting you with a wide grin.
“It’s time to go already?” Lily calls from behind him, voice dripping with faux innocence. She was laying it on thick.
Before you can answer, Tommy jumps in. “Can you and Lily stay for dinner?”
“I don’t know…” You start, unsure how to say no politely.
“Dad, convince her. We’re having your famous spagbol,” Tommy adds, eyes hopeful.
You catch the look on his face—so earnest, so excited—and then turn to John. An easy smile creeps onto your face despite yourself.
“Famous, huh?”
John smirks. “It’s pretty good, if I do say so myself.”
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By the time dinner is ready, it feels easy with him, dangerously easy. You sit around the table with him and the kids, laughing between bites of spaghetti, the kind of domestic quiet that used to feel foreign now curling around you like a blanket. It felt so right. But still, there’s that persistent whisper in the back of your mind — If he wanted this, really wanted this, he would’ve stayed that night.
Before you can spiral too deep into your own thoughts, Tommy pipes up brightly, “Can Lily and I have a sleepover?”
You glance at John, caught off guard. “Lily and I should really get going, plus Lily doesn’t have anything to change into.”
“I brought clothes and my toothbrush,” Lily says far too quickly.
You narrow your eyes. “And why did you do that if you were just supposed to stay for the afternoon?”
Lily and Tommy exchange a look — a guilty, sheepish look that screams we planned this.
John chuckles under his breath, clearly catching on. “I wouldn’t mind,” he says, glancing at you. “I could set up a spot for Lily in Tommy’s room.”
“You should stay too!” Tommy adds enthusiastically, eyes shining with innocent matchmaking energy.
“I don’t have any pyjamas to sleep in, Tom,” you say, raising an eyebrow.
“You can borrow my dad’s!” he says like it’s the simplest solution in the world.
You blink. These kids were really committing to the bit.
“I wouldn’t want to intrude…” You begin, your voice a little quieter, your gaze flicking to John.
“You wouldn’t be,” he says, meeting your eyes. “I have a guest room. It’s yours if you want it.”
His voice is calm, but there’s something soft in it. An invitation. Like he wanted you to stay.
“It’s decided then,” Your daughter interjects before you can try to squirm out of it.
You had been tricked by two 9-year-olds; this was a new low.
The hours drifted by as you sat in the living room, all watching a movie together.
Your eyes were fixed on the screen, but all you could think about was John. The fact that sitting just a few feet away, but still felt so far away.
Though if you had turned your head to look at him, you would’ve seen him looking back at you. His gaze would tell you everything you wanted to hear, but alas, that isn’t fate’s plan.
The movie ends, and the kids groan when John tells them it’s time for bed. It’s a whirlwind, as they rush around tuckering themselves out. Entering Tommy’s room, you go over to Lily, who’s already in bed, ready for you to tuck her in. You pull the blanket up to Lily’s chin, smoothing her hair like you do most nights, your voice soft in the dim glow of the bedside lamp.
“Remember, be an adult,” Lily says, reminding you not to be a coward, essentially.
“Goodnight, Lil,” You reply before kissing her forehead. Maybe, just maybe, you’d consider her words.
“Goodnight, Mom,” she murmurs, already half-dreaming.
You stand slowly, and as you turn to leave, you notice Tommy looking at you. His eyes are peeking out from under his blanket, lids heavy but alert.
You pause. “Do you want me to tuck you in, too?”
He hesitates, then gives the smallest nod, like he’s not quite sure he should, but wants to anyway.
You gently and carefully tuck him into his covers like you had with Lily. “There,” you whisper. “Comfy?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles, rubbing one eye. “Thanks, Mom.”
You’re shocked hearing him call you ‘Mom’. You glance down at him, already drifting off, lashes fluttering against his cheeks, completely unaware of the weight his words carried.
You swallow and manage a quiet, “Goodnight,” brushing his hair back gently before slipping out of the room. What you don’t know is that on the other side of the hallway, just out of sight, John is standing perfectly still.
He’d heard it too.
He didn’t know how to respond to it either, wasn’t sure what it meant or what came next, but for now, he was just… happy. Happy that his son felt safe with you.
Later that night, you lie flat on your back, staring at the ceiling of the guest room, your thoughts louder than the quiet hum of the house. The shadows shift with the streetlight outside, but your mind stays frozen. You were wearing his shirt, and he was on your mind. It smelled like him, and you could imagine his arms around you. You bury your face in it, wishing that he was with you and not in a room down the hallway.
You needed to confront what happened that night. You hadn’t talked about it since. It lingered like static between you, unspoken but never forgotten. And you couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t matter, not when it meant everything.
You needed to know if he wanted you when you’re both sober.
So, gathering every ounce of courage, you throw off the blanket, slide quietly out of bed, and make your way down the hall to his room. The floor feels colder than you expected. Or maybe that’s just your nerves.
You stop in front of his door.
Raise your fist.
And then… freeze.
You stand there for what feels like forever, five minutes, at least, your knuckles hovering midair. Your heart pounds loud enough to fill the silence, your thoughts racing. What if he didn’t feel the same? What if that night was just a mistake?
Suddenly, the door swings open, and it startles the living hell out of you — your fist, already midair, connects squarely with his face.
“Oh fuck,” you whisper-shout, eyes wide as John stumbles back, one hand instantly flying to his nose.
“Shit,” he groans, squinting in pain and trying to blink away the surprise. “You can throw quite a punch.”
“Oh my god, John. Holy fuck. I am so, so sorry,” you ramble, panic surging through you as you hover uselessly in front of him. “Let me get ice, I’ll fix it… just, don’t die.”
You spin around and scuttle off toward the kitchen, trying to keep your footsteps light even though your heart’s thudding like a drum solo. The freezer is a disaster. No ice trays. Who doesn’t have ice trays?
You spot something. Grab it.
Moments later, you return with a sheepish expression and a frozen bag clutched in your hand.
“I couldn’t find an ice tray,” you mutter, pressing the bag gently to his face, “so I got peas.”
You sit down with him on the bed, holding the bag of peas to his nose. “That won’t bruise or anything, right?”
“No, I’ll be okay. Worried about my handsome face, are you?” John jokes, and you’re just glad he has a sense of humour about it.
You groan and drop your forehead onto his shoulder, mortified. “This was not how I pictured this going.”
His hand gently touches the small of your back. “You were coming to talk to me, right? About… us?”
You nod against him. “Yeah. Before I assaulted you.”
“Let’s start there,” he says, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes with a crooked smile. “Because I was kinda hoping we’d finally talk about it too.”
“Really? It didn’t feel like that since you ran,” you say, voice low. You were trying not to sound hurt, but you were. He weighs like the weight of the world is on his shoulders and moves his bag of peas off his face to look at you.
“You’re right to be mad. I just… I panicked when I woke up next to you.”
“You were regretful,” you say, attempting to finish his sentence. His eyes widen, and his mouth parts like he’s about to protest.
“No, no—that’s not it at all. I was scared. That if you saw me when you woke up, you’d think it was a mistake.”
He takes a breath, shuffling closer. “You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met. You’re such a pain in the ass, always calling me out and keeping me on my toes. But also kind, and funny, and you make me feel so… alive.”
His hand lifts gently, your cheek resting against his palm. It feels perfect, like this is what fate had in store all along.
“I'm an idiot for running but I do like you. I’m falling for you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
You smile, heart racing. “I’m falling for you, too, John Walker.”
Pulling him in, your hands still cold and wet from holding the bag of peas, but he doesn’t care. You kiss him like it’s the only thing keeping you upright—like if you stop, everything might collapse around you.
The two of you pull your clothes off each other's bodies but there's no rush. Each layer that comes off brings you that much closer together.
Now completely naked you sit in front of him and you can see why he has all that confidence. His fingers tangle in your hair and he's about to kiss you when you stop him.
“Will they hear?”
“There's a couple rooms between us, they won't hear as long as you're not too loud.”
“We both know that's going to be a challenge,”You say, recalling the way you were hollering when he ate you out. Your surprised that none of your neighbours issued a noise complaint.
“You need to try or I'll have to find something to gag you with,” John suggests, his voice low and sultry.
“Don't threaten me with a good time.”
He pressures you back into the bed and bites your neck hard enough to leave a big mark.
“You better hope no one asks about that.”
“Let them ask, you can explain to them exactly what I did to you.”
The marks don't stop there. By the time he's done you look like you've been attacked by a wild animal. Hickeys and love bites littered all over your skin, each one a testament of John's desire for you.
“Need you inside me,” You pant out already guiding him towards you with your legs.
He looks down at you with hooded eyes the anticipation eating you alive before he wraps his arms around you and crarryignyou off the bed.
“Where are we—?” You start but don't finish as you notice he's plopped you down right in front of a mirror.
It's the perfect solution for when someone wants to fuck you from behind and see you fall apart of their cock. Thank everything for whoever invented mirrors.
He lightly kicks your feet apart, hands gliding up your body before resting on your boobs.
You getting back against him, trying to feel him and needing him to fuck the daylights out of you. It had been long enough and you were tired of waiting.
“Impatient, aren't you?”
“I just need you. Don't make me suffer,” You pout, the mirror capturing the needy look in your eyes.
“Well, who am I to say no to you?” He says before lining himself up with your entrance and pushing in.
Anticipating the screen you were about to let out, he covers your mouth with his hand. Only the sound of his hips slapping against your ass echoing in the room.
“Look at yourself, look at how quickly you feel apart for me,” John whispers against your ear. And he was right. You were a complete mess after only a few thrusts, eyes watery as your neck arches into him.
“So good,” You manage to get out without screaming. He grabs you by the hair, exposing your neck too him as he gives you a few more hickeys for good measure. Rocking your hips into you as he paints your neck with his lips.
Suddenly, your hips are being lifted into the air as he wraps his arms around you as if getting ready to suplex you. The way he starts fucking you is just as disorientating as a suplex would be. He's hitting your sensitive spot dead on turning your legs to jelly as they dangle in the air.
He's manhandling like you're a doll and you love it, especially when you can see it all happening in the mirror. The way his veins on his arms were popping with effort as he milks his cock with your pussy like you're a fleshlight.
“That's it, breed me, John.”
Hearing you say that only made him double his efforts.
“Is that what you want? Want me to get you pregnant?” John says, his fingers gripping your hips, clearly excited at the prospect. You nod desperately like you need to have it or you'll die.
You gasp, whimper, cry and reaching out for anything to keep you quiet.
“N-need you to fill me up,” You stutter out, “Need your cum in me.”
Then you're given a brief break when he pulls you back from the mirror, tossing you back into the bed. But two seconds don't even pass before he's feeding his cock back into your needy hole.
“J-john!”
You squeal a little too loudly and never you know it his hand is on your chin guiding your own panties in your mouth.
“Such a pretty sight,” John says as he cages you, fingers intertwining as he pins you against the bed.
You know you won't be able to keep going much longer. Wrecked doesn't even begin to describe what you were and your orgasm was about to knock you into a whole new dimension.
Feeling his cock twitch, you lock your legs around his waist and he finishes deep inside of you which triggers your own orgasm. His hot cum fills you up, painting your fluttering walls as he effectively breeds you.
The both of you lay there catching your breath as your orgasms pulse through you. This was what life was about; having sex with hot single dads.
You come back to your senses, just barely and have an evil idea.
Seeing the opportunity fate had presented you for payback, you flip your positions climbing on top of him and riding him into overstimulation. A strangled cry that was supposed to be your name falling from his lips.
“Baby…” John whimpers as his body tenses up, abs contracting lines he's already about to cum again.
You could get used to having him at your mercy, bottom lip trembling as he tries to keep it together.
“I like seeing you like this. So desperate for me and only me.” You pulling him to your lips by his hair. He groans but he's into it, he'd let you have your way with him just as much as you let him have his way with you.
“Only you,” He replies and you believe it.
Your hand away from his hair, letting John's head hit the mattress, before going in and leaving your own string of love bites. He bites his lip, all but writhing under your soft touch.
“Someone might see those.”
“Then you can explain to them what I did,” You say throwing his words back in his face.
You keep fucking until you tire yourselves out, your bodies sticky and heaving. It was as good as you imagined it would be and you're kicking yourself for not giving in earlier.
John's hand rests on your thigh tracing little patterns as you play with his hair when he asks a very pertinent question.
“Are you on birth control?”
Your eyes widen when you realise you are in fact not on birth control. With the downright sad lack of sex you were having before John walked into your life there was no reason to be on it.
“No”, You gulp,“We'll talk about it in the morning?”
John hums in agreement and holds you against his chest in a vice grip that screams “You're mine.”
In the morning, you’re happy to feel John’s arms still wrapped around you, his face pressed against your shoulder, his breath slow and even. Peaceful.
“Who wants pancakes?” you call out, later in the kitchen, sliding a golden stack onto the table with a grin.
You have a slow, sweet morning breakfast—the kind where everyone’s still in pyjamas, laughing over spilt flour and slightly burnt edges.
“Oh! Let me go get the syrup. Can you show me where it is, Tommy?” you ask.
Tommy nods enthusiastically, hopping up and heading toward the pantry with you, eager to help you find it.
Back at the table, Lily narrows her eyes at John, clearly sizing him up. Then, dead serious, she delivers:
“If you hurt my mom, you die. Understood?”
John blinks, caught off guard for a second, but then a slow smile tugs at his lips. He knew exactly where she got that intensity from.
“Understood.”
“Good,” Lily says, her expression finally softening. “You make great spagbol so I'd hate to have to kill you.”
ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎
It’s been a few months since you and John started dating — the kind of comfortable, lived-in months where you had keys to each other's places, regularly took the kids out together, and fell asleep on the couch on each other.
Unlocking the door, John and Tommy step inside, and they’re immediately hit with the scent of burnt toast, a low hum of music, and the unmistakable energy of mild chaos. They were here to pick you and Lily up to carpool to the Saturday morning game, but it looked like they’d walked into a warzone, and at least it smelled like pancakes.
“Morning!” Tommy calls out as he looks around, hoping to catch a glimpse of you.
“Oh hi, guys,” you pant out from somewhere in the kitchen, out of breath and flustered. He doesn’t need to be able to see you to know you’re going through it.
Lily’s sitting at the dining room table, calmly sipping orange juice like she’s been through this before. Tommy runs over and sits beside Lily, swiping a pancake off her plate.
“Mom’s having a meltdown,” she says, totally unbothered. “It’s pretty intense. She yelled at the coffee machine.”
John raises an eyebrow and walks to the kitchen, and there you are, wearing one sock and a hoodie that you actually stole from John, batter on your cheek, surrounded by open containers and the remnants of pancake making.
“It’s so good to see you,” You cry as you practically jump into his arms. You let go of him so you can continue your spiral when he stops you.
“Honey, you’re running around like a headless chicken. Let me help,” John offers.
You hesitate, then sigh and reach into the mess on the counter and pull out a hairbrush. “Can you finish braiding Lil’s hair for me? She’s lost her lucky cleats, and I need to find them before we leave.”
“On it.”
He kisses your forehead, warm and steady, before heading into the kitchen.
Lily watches him approach with guarded suspicion. “Please don’t mess this up.”
John grins. “Don’t worry, I’m a professional.”
He ruffles her hair on purpose, just to rile her up, and she bats his hand away with a huff and a laugh.
Meanwhile, you’re darting around the house in full-on panic mom mode — lifting couch cushions, checking under the bed, even inside the fridge for some reason (you never know), until finally, you spot the missing shoes. Inside her toy chest, naturally, buried under a plastic tiara and two mismatched Barbie legs.
You walk back into the dining room to the sound of laughter, Tommy’s head thrown back as John tells some ridiculous story, funny voices and all. Lily’s giggling along too as he finishes tying off the braid with surprising skill.
You lean against the doorframe, heart swelling. It’s loud, it’s messy, but it’s yours. And in that moment, it hits you: this is what happy looks like.
“Found it,” you say, holding the shoes up triumphantly.
John looks up, grinning. “See? I told you everything would come together.”
You smile at him. This is perfect; he’s perfect.
“Are we ready to go?” you call out, grabbing your bag and keys.
They respond in a chorus of “Yeah!” and “Almost!” as shoes squeak across the floor.
Clambering into the car like a small tornado, Tommy buckles in and grins over at Lily. “Losing team’s parent buys ice cream,” he declares.
“Ohhh, bold move,” you say, raising your eyebrows in the rearview mirror.
“Looks like you’re buying ice cream,” John says smugly, sliding into the driver's seat, glancing at you like he already knows today’s outcome.
“In your dreams,” you shoot back, smirking as you start the engine.
This was the kind of happiness that sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention—and all it took was yelling at a hot dad at a soccer game.
┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after getting injured on a mission and dismissing your help, you can’t seem to shake why john doesn’t like you. the answer is more complicated than you thought.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.0K (sorry!)
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), teammates to lovers, angst, talk of insecurities, john is an asshole who’s emotionally constipated, mention of violence, wound tending trope, heavy kissing, groping, teasing, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, mild body worship, hair pulling, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, missionary position, john has a huge praise kink, aftercare.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: listen ,,, I know he’s a bad person & he’s flawed but he’s so well-written and hot … and it’s wyatt russell !! first time writing for john and I loved this, I hope you guys love it too! thank you so much for your support! 🫶
Ash floats through smoke-laden air in the aftermath of an explosion, chunks of a building blown into the streets, screams of civilians pounding within your ears. Time stills, as if it’s come to a crawl, and everything slows around you.
Missions still paralyze you from time to time, fear and doubt creeping in, keeping you frozen in-place. It’s gotten somewhat easier, adapting to chaotic situations, attempting to fit in with your new teammates.
A clammy perspiration clings to your flesh beneath your suit, the design nondescript. Valentina had pushed for something flashy, more in-line with your abilities, but you refused. The less that you stuck out, the better.
It wasn’t nearly as impressive as the rest of the team, healing powers at the expense of your own energy, but you were designated as the ‘medic’, for obvious reasons. Whenever someone was injured or too roughed-up, you were there to help.
“You still with us over there?”
John Walker’s snide quip emanates from the communication link sitting in your ear, and it’s enough to effectively shatter your stupor. It wasn’t a malicious remark — just a little annoying, likely furthered by his tone of voice.
Steve Rogers was someone you knew, years ago — an acquaintance, really, but he’d helped get you out of a bind with undercover H.Y.D.R.A operatives. When he wore the shield, when Sam wore the shield, it stood for something greater than themselves.
Walker had been thrown into enough turmoil already; losing the role of Captain America, murdering an innocent, losing his family. It was all his fault, he knew this — it didn’t make the pain any less, knowing he was at the root of it all.
The both of you butted heads more often than not, two differing personalities that clashed in verbal sparring matches or thinly-veiled hostility. You’d tried to empathize with him, but he made it difficult with his condescending attitude.
Bucky had played mediator more times than you could count — you didn’t enjoy getting angry, the feeling never benefited you. Nevertheless, you were trying to get along with Walker and learn to work better as teammates.
Things were progressing, albeit slowly. Even after extending the olive branch and being kind to him, maybe too nice, he still held some lingering indifference towards you.
“I copy.” In the aftermath of thwarting enemies of the state, you prefer to help the civilians, ensuring that they were out of harm’s way, healed. Jogging toward a group of people attempting to move rubble aside, you’re quick to assist.
“There’s still one more, if someone wants to take care of it,” Ava’s voice comes over the communicator, muddled by background noise of emergency vehicles. “Unless you need help.”
“I got it.” Quick to volunteer, Walker’s voice cuts in before dissipating. You’re busy helping move wreckage aside, freeing any trapped citizens and making way for ambulances. Wailing sirens fill the air, and things move swiftly.
The air smells of burning, intermingled with a twinge of copper, a streak of crimson splashed upon your cheek. It’s a shallow cut, something trivial and minor, muscles aching with a dull throb after the dust begins to settle.
Helicopters begin to circle overhead, the media soon to follow. It was some rogue section of former H.Y.D.R.A operatives that had caused this mess, and with the formation of the New Avengers, these threats seem to appear more often.
The public is torn — one side openly celebrating that there’s protection again, the other side scornful of a ragtag group of government rejects. You aren’t one to pay attention to the discourse, focusing on finding your own footing, building relationships and making amends.
Despite having the team to lean on, you had a complicated relationship with your own family. After your powers manifested, you became isolated, kept at a distance, prompting you to run away and find S.H.I.E.L.D, when it still existed.
Still, you felt alone sometimes, but the pain had lessened with the passage of time. Alexei, of all people, treated you like a daughter, and Ava proved to be a reliable friend, despite her constant grimace. The more you assimilated with them, the more the bitter sting dissipated.
The team was a conglomerate of fragmented pasts — scars, veiled wounds, regrets; but they had become your family, or something close, and that meant the world to you.
As first responders began to flood the scene, you regrouped with the rest of the team, scraped and battered from the fighting, but all intact. Bucky and Yelena typically helmed any media events following a battle, but this time, everyone wanted to go home.
“Look at us,” Alexei laughs, placing a hand on John’s shoulder, and Yelena’s. “We are good team! The best team that the world has ever seen!” He cheers, and you find his enthusiasm endearing. John winces, stepping away from the Russian’s hold.
“You say that after every mission.” Yelena points out, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The jet is somewhere down the street, and you all begin the arduous process of walking back.
“It is to remind of the truth, of our strength.” Alexei boasts, gleeful as ever as he jogs to keep up with Bucky. Bucky’s taken to letting him pretend that he’s the “co-captain”, just to keep his spirits high.
Morale is Alexei’s specialty — there is never a dull moment when he’s around, and his enthusiasm evokes a small smile from you, curling at the corners of your mouth. Dull, throbbing pangs of sore muscle ebbs through your body.
Straggling along at the tail end of the group, you step through some of the smaller pieces of rubble, a majority of what remains to be disposed of by a clean-up crew. Your mind is elsewhere, and the idea of sleeping once you’re back to the Watchtower is very appealing.
John is there too, uncharacteristically quiet as he walks a pace or two ahead of you, and you notice the slight stutter in his gait. There’s crimson blooming from a gash on the back of his suit, a deep wound, and your brows furrow together.
He didn’t say anything about it, which is typical, but you can’t help but be concerned. You didn’t dislike John, simply abhorred his attitude and the way he sometimes believed that he wasn’t at-fault.
Closing the distance, you come up on his flank, softly clearing your throat. “You’re hurt,” You murmur, low enough for only him to hear. He has an issue with getting injured, as if his pride is simultaneously bruised, so you keep it cordial. “I can take care of it.”
He’s always been reluctant to accept your help, allowing himself to fester within the pain, as if it’s some sort of penance for all the wrong he’s done. His muscles ache, and the gash, bruises, and cuts don’t make anything easier.
“I’m fine,” Dismissive, John brushes your concern aside, focusing on getting back to the jet without collapsing. The serum does its part, easier to manage the pain, but it doesn’t take away the sting. “It’s not that bad.” He utters, hoping you’ll drop it.
It’s his tone again; bitter, indifferent, swatting your offer aside as if you’re more bothersome than helpful. For reasons you can’t explain, it makes you angry, as if he’s too good for your help. Your jaw clenches, and you try again.
“There’s nothing wrong with accepting help, John. When we get back to the Watchtower, I can —”
“I said I’m fine.” Walker retorts, snapping at you without hesitation. It’s born from an amalgamation of agony and his own innermost demons that he’s wrestling with. He stares ahead, not wanting to look at your expression.
Bewildered, you fight against getting frustrated with him, wondering if there’s something that extends beyond his surface-level condescension.
Though, you wonder what you did to make him hate you so much — you sparred about the past, sure, but you were trying to bury the hatchet.
As if pierced by something sharp, you scoff, attempting to smother the flicker of fury that burned within your chest. It overrides your judgment, mouth moving before you can tell yourself to stop. “What’s your problem with me? Jesus, Walker, I just want to help you.”
The both of you are far away enough for the rest to remain oblivious to your sudden squabbling, and John grits his teeth, a sharp inhale splitting his lungs. “I can handle this on my own.” His tone is edged, but there’s something more beneath the surface.
Cerulean hues issue a warning for you to drop the subject, and you do, albeit reluctantly. Anger diminishes into confusion, uncertainty; you didn’t understand. Despite your efforts, he continued to swat you away as if you were a pest.
The splinter of desperation in your cadence turns his stomach, verbal sparring settling into a tenuous silence. John steals a glance despite himself, noticing the forlorn look that is etched into your brow, as if you’ve done something wrong.
He knows it’s not you — never has been, it’s him. John’s agitation dwindles into guilt, knowing that your intentions were wholly good, selfless. It’s something that he wishes he could have, and he’s working on it, but the process is emotionally heavy.
Scorned, you keep pace with him, even if he’s pushed you aside, ensuring that he makes it to the jet intact. The rest of the team regards you with perplexity, though you’re dismissive of it, settling into the webbing of your flight-seat.
The aftermath is often hushed — bodies catching their breath, a wordless recuperation, senses beginning to climb down from heightened adrenaline. Bucky’s piloting you out, heading back to the Watchtower.
Exhaustion settles in, replacing the exhilaration that comes with missions, the surge of vigor in your bloodstream. Tilting backwards, your head meets the cool interior of the jet, engine’s idle buzz thrumming beneath your boots.
John sits beside you, unexpectedly, his strenuous sigh rattling your body, passing from the bulk of his bicep to you. His visage is contorted into a look of thinly-veiled wistfulness, glancing sideways at you, a faint grimace of apology.
Quiet, you don’t relocate, simmering in the silence without so much as a murmur. Copper stings your nostrils, the scent of his blood, and you pretend that it doesn’t phase you; it does.
Your arms loosely fold over your chest, listening to the drone of the quinjet. The ride home is short, shorter than expected, and you’re eager to crawl beneath scalding water and let it burn the rush away.
As Bucky prepares for landing on the helipad outside, your gaze flutters toward John, whose stare is attempting to sear through the metal walls of the jet’s interior. He seems gone, as if his mind is a thousand miles away.
It was the same look he had when you were in the Void with him; loathing, conflicted, ripping himself apart for you to see.
The jet tremors violently as it descends onto the helipad, the noise scraping against your ears, a sound that’s still jarring to you. John remains unphased — he’s done it hundreds of times, terse as the hull begins to open.
Saying something now seems meaningless, words fading to ash within your throat, raw from thirst. Your fingers idly curl into the sleeves of your suit, tension relinquished as the team begins to file out of the jet, bearing the bruises and scrapes from the mission.
When you enter the Tower, a sense of relief finds you, the comfort of home, shoulders slouched as you make for your room. Bob is lingering beside the window, a book in his hand, headphones dangling from his ears.
“Good work today,” Bucky calls, attempting to boost morale. He’s at the helm, trying to steer this ship in the right direction, but it’s harder than it looks. “Get some rest.” He moves toward the lounge, hoping to get a status update on the cleanup.
Alexei chimes in with an echoed remark about how everyone did a good job, mirroring Bucky’s own statement. A smile curls at the corner of your mouth despite yourself, feet dragging as you sluggishly stumble toward your room.
Through the light clamor, you don’t see John, disappearing through the tinted pane of your door, feeling it hiss and click behind you. Your room is warm, cozy; it’s a sanctuary you’ve created, making something within the ruins of your old life.
A hush falls throughout the Tower, typically a quiet evening after returning from a mission. Outside, the skies turn to a swirling ink, veiled by heavier clouds that signal the onset of rain.
Peeling away your suit, your flesh is exposed to the coolness of your quarters, glittering with a layer of perspiration, body speckled in light cuts and fresh bruises. The shower calls your name, inviting, and you marinate beneath the water for half an hour.
Bruises pulse with a dull ache, remnants of crimson swept away by the water, leaving you renewed as you change into loungewear. Perched along the edge of your bed, you towel-dry your hair, gaze flickering toward your door.
You shouldn’t be the one to apologize.
The thought of checking on John crosses your mind, and then it stays, leaving you frustrated and torn. You didn’t hate him, you never have; if anything, you were left wondering why the strange hostility still lingered, after everything.
Even then, your desire to help overrode the brief spat that you had. He was your teammate, and leaving him to lick his grievous wounds without ensuring his safety felt cruel.
A tremulous inhale invades your lungs, steeling yourself as you cross into the corridor, leaving your room behind. His quarters are down the hallway, towards the very end, marked by blanched lights on either side.
No one sees you, and you creep over the cold tile as if you might be apprehended in the process. The walk there feels as if it’s stretched on for an eternity, taunting you with each step as you make it to the tinted panel.
His lock is off, you realize, and you try to knock, the sound eerily soft. There’s nothing, only an awkward stretch of silence that makes you shift uncomfortably, the chill of the floor sending a shiver down your spine.
“John?” Abandoning the use of ‘Walker’, you idly pace before the door, weaving in idle circles as you wait for him to answer. Still, nothing — you wonder if it’s intentional, if he’s purposefully ignoring you to prove a point.
Intending to ask for forgiveness later, you slide the door open, stepping into his room with a twinge of anxiety. You shouldn’t be skulking around in here, but his lack of answer had you worried — more than you should’ve been, really.
“So much for knocking,” His voice cuts through your scrambled thoughts like a serrated knife, though lacking the sardonic poise. “Could’ve waited a minute.” John utters, and you spot him in his bathroom.
Startled, your gaze draws to him, attempting to patch himself up with bloodsoaked fingertips and a disgruntled countenance. His back is facing the mirror, head craned over his shoulder, blonde brows creased together, throat stirring with a noise of agitation.
“You didn’t answer.” With a weak protest, you hover in the doorway, shuffling forward to let it close with a subtle click. Everything seems devoid of personal decorum in his room, as if he’s still deciphering what goes where, some belongings still in boxes.
“You didn’t give me a chance.” John retorts, lips parted to make room for a strained sigh. He’s been harsh enough today — he recollects, composes himself, and lets his guard waver.
“I was worried about you.” The weight of your confession brings him pause, hand poised against his back, attempting to apply gauze. He’s failing miserably, cerulean hues darting toward you, arms folded over your chest.
John stops, jaw tense as he huffs with frustration, discarding the roll of gauze onto the bathroom countertop. The low glow of the light glitters against his skin, pleasantly sunkissed, muscles taut and broad, speckled in violet bruises.
There’s a rawness to him, sinewy yet firm, the honed strength of a trained soldier. He’s visceral, nothing grossly herculean, but he’s worked for his physicality, sacrificed plenty for it.
You realize you’ve been ogling him, gaze carefully tracing over the blonde hair smattered over his chest, trailing along his abdomen before it disappeared beneath his tactical pants.
Tendrils of heat snake across the back of your neck, a twinge of something desirous stirring within your stomach. You aren’t used to it, and you feel yourself attempt to rip your gaze away to something else; and you can’t.
He’s a man beneath it all, beneath the shield, the armor, the facade of an inflated swagger, all of the peacocking — he’s vulnerable, now. John’s countenance softens, startled by the sincerity that permeates your voice.
It’s unusual for him to be this quiet, as if you ripped the bravado and smugness right from his throat. Pacing forward, you decide to extend the offer again, hoping that he’ll accept your help and throw away the pride.
“I can help,” Your tone is disarmingly tender, something that John knows he’s undeserving of, given his behavior towards you. You vex him, but not because of your demeanor — he’s falling, and he’s trying to stop himself; he can’t. “Please.”
John concedes, head bobbing in a brief nod as he turns to face the mirror, lukewarm water ridding the crimson that stained his fingers. Coiled muscle cuts across his back, flesh littered in old scars and a colorful variety of bruises.
With a soft exhale, you awkwardly move into the doorway of the bathroom, blanketed by the pale orange of the lights, the distant buzz something of a comfort to you. The gash stretches from his left rib to spine, an ugly wound, oozing red that trickles over his back.
Scraped, calloused hands grip the edge of the counter as he props himself up, gaze flickering toward your reflection in the mirror. Your hair, still damp, tousled and disheveled, a cut on your cheek, mannerisms somewhat shrewd.
It’s quiet — too quiet for your liking, but you don’t want to be the one to break the ice. Wordlessly, you reach out, palm beginning to mist with wisps of a faint green, your powers manifesting.
“I’m sorry for today,” John murmurs, stopping you in your tracks. The mist wavers, concentration effectively shattered by his apology, which happened to be entirely unexpected. “About not letting you help me.”
“Is it something I did?” Your inquiry evokes a pang of melancholy, as if his heart is bleeding, still halfway stitched together. “Listen, I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m trying to move past it.”
John sighs, exiting through his nostrils; measured, restrained. “You didn’t do anything,” He’s learning to admit when he’s the problem, digits tightening against the dark granite; it groans beneath his grasp. “I don’t hate you.”
Relief blossoms within your chest, as if some weight is lifted from your shoulders. Still, you wonder what exactly is wrong with him, festering below the surface, something he’s trying to bury. “Be honest with me — what’s wrong?” You question, brows furrowing together.
He’s reluctant to tell you why he’s comfortable with sitting in the pain — why he feels he deserves it. John knows that you mean well, always looking out for everyone else, showing kindness when you didn’t have to.
“This is what I deserve,” John utters, cadence embittered, withholding a wave of emotion. Tears swim, unshed within his eyes, and he actively fights against it. “The pain — for what I did, for what happened.”
For Lemar, for Olivia, for the blood on his hands, for the son who’ll only know his father as a deadbeat. He hates himself, deep down — he’s learning to be a better man, if that were even possible.
His transparency startles you, attempting to process this information in a way that evokes empathy. No one on the team is truly, wholly good — there’s amends that need to be made, most of them in the healing process, including you.
It’s a bleak contrast from the man constantly barraging you with snarky remarks, constantly engaging in banter with you. You don’t remember him opening up like this with anyone else.
Still, your hand drops, fingers twisting together as you scramble to come up with some encouragement. You’re so accustomed to his general smugness and cocksure attitude that this blindsides you.
“Just because you’ve done bad things doesn’t mean that you deserve to suffer, or rake yourself over the coals again,” It’s gentle, sound advice — John’s eyes screw shut. “Everyone deserves to heal, including you.”
The blood on his hands feels heavy, like some anchor dragging him down. After being stripped of the role of Captain America, spiraling, losing his family, he briefly considered it — a way out. He was glad that he never went through with it.
In the Void, when you found your way into his room, it was the moment Lemar had been killed. Replayed, over and over again, unable to be prevented — but his reaction could’ve been.
He could’ve been a better man.
In the beginning, he tried to justify it, rationalizing killing someone in cold blood. After time passed, he knew how wrong he was, how he desecrated the shield, the mantle; all for something else, to sate his rage. No matter how much healing he did, that would haunt him forever.
“Thanks.” He grits, as if he doesn’t fully believe your words. John understands your intentions, that you’re being empathetic and kind despite the abrasive way he’s acted towards you. It makes him feel worse. “I am trying.”
“I know,” Placating, your digits begin to shimmer with wisps of emerald energy, your power manifesting. “I know you are, John.” Oozing with a tender amiability, you can hear the tremor in his exhale.
When you called him John, it startled him; he’d gotten so accustomed to ‘Walker’, but he didn’t mind this in the slightest. Despite the rough beginning the both of you had with one another, he was warming up to you.
Admittedly, he thought it was the right thing to do, not fully letting you in to protect himself. When you had cordial conversations, he felt your kindness shroud him like a warm blanket; you’d moved on from the past.
Quiet, your hand finally lifts to his wound, brows creased in concentration, energy expelled into healing mist as it curls around the flesh. It feels like cold water, albeit soothing, pluming over torn skin and blood until it sinks inward.
A low grunt rips through his throat, somewhat startled at the sensation of your powers; simple, but wildly effective. It’s as if he’d never been slashed to begin with; the bruises and scrapes don’t go away, but the rest of it does.
Strained, your arm quivers, resolve slipping as you step away, using the doorway as a form of support. You’re always a little weak after you’ve healed someone, almost as if it’s an exchange of life.
“Better?” With a tender smile, you watch as he nods, inspecting himself in the mirror; nothing left behind. “Next time this happens, I hope you’ll let me help you.” You prompt, and he chuckles; it isn’t the typical condescending chide he gives you, either.
“I can’t make any promises.” John’s tone loses that bite, the indifference; it’s disarmingly soft. “Thanks again, for that. I’ve been an asshole to you — wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to help.” He murmured, tone lacking mirth.
“You have, but that can change,” Lips remain poised into a smile, one that makes his heart lurch within his chest. “You don’t have to keep being an asshole.” Your remark makes him scoff, though it’s more of a bemused sound, than anything else.
“I’ll lose my charm,” John counters, but he’s being sarcastic — somewhat, at least. You suspect he’ll still remain sharp-tongued and smug, but lose the indifference with you. “I know it’s something I need to work on.”
Grateful for his acknowledgment, you finally feel your energy return, a slow ebb that spreads throughout your body. Leaning off of the doorframe, you awkwardly step aside, figuring that this was your queue to leave.
“For the record, I never disliked you,” He utters, jaw clenched as he carefully navigates on what to say next. “Never had a problem with you, either. Your problem with me was justified.” John shrugs, his stare even-keel.
Bewildered, you let the pang of surprise fester, head cocking to one side. “I never really had a problem with you, or disliked you,” After this, you were beginning to understand why he was an asshole sometimes. “It’s all in the past, now. I want us to move forward.”
John’s halfhearted smile oozed with sincerity, a genuineness rarely seen by others. “I can do that.” Even still, he wouldn’t blame you if you had some sort of gripe against him, but you were kind — you were good, even if you didn’t think so.
His gaze hasn’t left you, cerulean hues fluttering over your countenance; you’re beautiful, eyes beset by kindness, half-dried tresses strung over your crown. The shirt you’re wearing is a size too big, sweatpants baggy, too.
He’s acutely aware of how obvious he’s being, ogling you; he always thought you were pretty, but in the bathroom’s faint glow, you’re stunning. You weren’t subtle either, he knows this, catching your shrewd gaze as it lingers on his arms.
John’s hands reach for his shirt, black spandex all wrinkled, balled up, stained with dried blood. The tension becomes unusually thick, mere embers kindled to life, now a fire that he doesn’t know if he can extinguish.
“Can I ask you something?” Your inquiry pierces through the tenuous silence, and there’s some momentary relief you gain from it.
“Yeah.” John’s tone is barely above a whisper, warm; as if he’s trying to calm himself down, ease the tension. With his shirt still clenched in one hand, he’s offering you his undivided attention.
With arms loosely folded over your chest, your fingers idly pluck at frayed stitching on your sleeves, a fleeting distraction. “Why were you always indifferent towards me, if you didn’t hate me?” You’re not accusatory, just curious.
Shit — John’s mind is scrambling for an answer that doesn’t make him seem strange. He’s got feelings for you, and you’re slowly drawing them out into the open; he doesn’t know how to handle it.
“Sometimes it’s easier for me to not let somebody in,” He shrugs, gaze wavering, flickering toward the ground. The vulnerability is something he’s still growing accustomed to — rawness of pain, feeling his emotions, choosing the right way to cope. “Because of what’s happened.”
Even then, his explanation still feels like he’s covering up for something else. Nevertheless, you let it rest, offering him a threadbare smile. “We don’t judge here, if you haven’t learned that already,” You sigh. “I’ll be here for you, if you choose to let me in.”
He already has — he’s appreciative, nodding as a display of gratitude before he finds your gaze again. “Thanks.” John smiles despite himself, swallowing down the words that want to escape him.
Silence settles between, the same tension simmering like before, causing you to shift your weight. He’s staring again, but you’re oblivious to it this time, angled away, trying to figure out what to do next.
Chewing at the inside of your cheek, your shoulders begin to slouch with relaxation. “I should probably go — you need rest.” You blurt, fumbling over your words, maintaining a sheepish smile as you shuffle toward the door.
John doesn’t really want you to leave; and he knows it’s selfish of him. His lips part, as if to ask you to stay, but he’s frozen, rooted in-place. Still, he nods, quietly resigning to letting you go back to your room.
His feet feel anchored to the floor, each step a drag as he trails after you, following you to the doorway. He’s quiet, still deliberating, turning over every word, every action within his mind. John comes up short, watching as you stop to say something else.
The closeness is sudden, wracked with tension; you’re nearly brushing arms with him, gooseflesh crawling along your spine. You’re both reaching for the door panel simultaneously, fumbling, fingers ghosting over one another; you recoil like you’ve been burned.
In the slim proximity, he catches a whiff of your shampoo — vanilla and peach, something sweeter, causing his jaw to tick. He’s looking again, unable to stop himself, gaze wandering over your body, appreciative; he grips the door frame as a distraction.
When you catch his stare, it burns you, something incendiary, as if he’s searing you into his mind. A subtle hitch forms within your throat, and you’re prepared to tell him goodnight, end it there — but you won’t move.
Silence stretches on, the sort of contemplative quiet before the onset of a storm, the deep breath before the plunge. Bodies linger within arm’s reach, screaming, and you have the audacity to stare at him, doe-eyed.
Then, you say his name, a feather-light whisper, gentle and placating. It barely registers, but he hears it, notices the parting of your lips, the way you haven’t recoiled from the closeness.
John’s mouth is suddenly pressed against yours in a heated frenzy.
A sharp inhale splits your diaphragm, lungs quaking, filled with a sudden surge of ecstasy when he kisses you. There’s a gasp stuck in the back of your throat, swallowed by the snare of his mouth.
His lips are unexpectedly soft, a stark contrast to the sharpness of his smart mouth. There’s a charged passion that echoes beyond the kiss, as if he’s walking the fine line of restraint.
Bewildered, your head is spinning, brain foggy, as if someone knocked you out. Left reeling, you don’t know what to say, what to do. Though, you’re receptive, mouth shyly moving against his, hands frozen at your sides.
When he pulls away, gauging your reaction, you appear as shocked as he does.
Each breath is labored, wrought with the sudden sting of exhilaration, butterflies beginning to pool within your belly. “I’m sorry.” John’s voice is low, a pleasant hum within your ear, but you don’t seem upset by what he did.
“Don’t be.” Without pause, your lips fly to meet him again, reciprocating the kiss, one that seems sluggish and passionate instead of frantic.
He’s kissing you back, hand dropping from the door to your hip, calloused digits caressing you through your shirt. The gesture ignites a fire within your bones, unable to stifle your mounting excitement.
Shyly, your hands move toward his chest, soft like velvet, smoothing over his pectorals as he presses you up against the door. A low groan vibrates through his chest, reveling in the feeling of your skin touching his.
There’s a poised strength coiled within his body, firm, flesh and blood, chest rising and falling underneath your hands.
His kiss is disarmingly gentle, something unexpected, but not unwelcome. You feel his body nudge against yours, distance now nonexistent.
You don’t know what’s gotten into you, gotten into him, but you’re enjoying yourself — you want him, need him, starving for contact.
He tastes metallic, an amalgamation of copper and a natural musk. Digits idly smooth over the coarse, blonde hair that covers his chest, descending toward his groin. The thought alone makes your knees weak.
Each kiss sends you spiraling, clawing for his mouth, leaving you ragged, desperate for his touch. You can’t remember the last time someone kissed you like this — even then, your experience is thin.
His scruffy countenance melds with yours, bleeding heat, kissing you with enough vigor that it prompts you to hold onto him. Your heart gallops, races — it’s quick and erratic, beating in your ears.
Recoiling from the kiss, your fingers tremble, deftly tracing over his collarbone, over scar-kissed skin, over faint clutches of freckles. “John, I — Are you sure?” You whisper, hoarse, afraid that he might regret it all in the morning.
“Wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t sure.” John murmurs, voice low, curling thickly as his hands rub circles into your hips. He’s strong, secure — you didn’t expect to feel so comfortable with him. “I’ve thought about it for a while.”
His lips make contact with your jaw, mouth clamoring over your skin, kissing the spot beneath your ear. Flush to you, his confession makes your bones lurch, and you wonder what else he’s thought about, too.
Flustered, you’re quick to melt into him, visibly smitten, as if you’ve wound yourself into a tight knot. John notices, mouth twitching into a smirk as he places a string of kisses beneath your jawline.
“John …” A soft mumble rolls from your tongue, hands beginning to trail from chest to shoulders, anchoring yourself to him. His beard burns against your flesh, a pleasant scratch, reminding you that he’s real, this is real.
Warm breath feathers over your throat, your jaw, your cheek — he’s still smirking, too. “You’re getting shy on me.” He mumbles, able to taste the heat that bristles from your flesh. A hitch forms within your throat, his remark making you burn.
“No,” Posturing a weak defense, your body succumbs, lips parted to make room for a dizzying sigh. “I’m not.” It’s pathetic, your retort, but he’s still grinning as if he’s caught you in a trap, attempting to reign in the smug attitude.
“Right.” John’s cadence is dangerously low, little more than a pleasant husk that scratches the back of your brain. He’s teasing you still, cerulean hues alight with mirth, fingertips barely skirting underneath your shirt.
He’s charming — too charming, and it makes your flesh burn with an embarrassed heat. His lips plume over your throat, hips brushing against yours, and that’s when you feel it. Something firm through his kevlar pants, briefly grinding against your pelvis.
A noise echoes from John’s throat, somewhere between a grunt and groan, causing you to smile, as if you’ve discovered his secret. “Already?” It’s playful, sure, but you’re simultaneously flattered that it didn’t take much work.
It’s his turn to blush, scarlet crawling over handsome features, red spreading towards his neck. “Can’t help it,” John mumbled, gaze briefly meeting yours. “You’re beautiful.” His low timbre made you shiver.
Unable to smother your smile, you urge him closer for another kiss, digits clamoring for the nape of his neck, toying with the blonde hair there. Each entanglement of lips seems to grow in fervor, charged with mutual excitement, passion.
His hands are fisted in your shirt against, giving it a soft tug, as if silently asking you for your permission. Mouths continue to clash, a mess of lips and teeth, tongue when John initiates it, eliciting a moan from your maw.
With a brief nod, he breaks from you, only to assist in removing your shirt, tossing it elsewhere in his room. You aren’t wearing a brassiere, which catches his attention, stopping in his tracks as he admires your physique.
“Jesus,” John sighs, rapturous, noticing the doe-eyed look you’re giving him again. Lips part, jaw unclenched as he not-so-subtly ogles your collarbone, letting it drift toward your chest. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Swallowing your anxiety, you feel yourself melt beneath his stare, incendiary enough to turn you to cinders where you stand. “The thought hasn’t crossed my mind.” Barely above a whisper, your gentle teasing evokes a half-smile from him.
A huff leaves him, hand steady as he kneads into your hip, dipping lower, grasping at your haunch as he lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his hips. You’re still kissing him, held aloft by John’s arms, bearing your weight without effort.
He carries you to his bed, gray sheets already disheveled, laying you down as he crawls on top of you. A soft exhale whistles through your nose, arousal beginning to coalesce between your thighs, warmth pooling in your belly.
“You sure?” John murmurs, wanting to ensure that you’re certain about this. He is, but he wants to make sure that all cards are on the table. He’s not used to this, to showing vulnerability, but it feels comfortable with you.
“Yeah, I am,” Gazes twine together, the only illumination being the glow from the bathroom, blanketing you in swirls of orange and shadow. “I want you, John.” Your admission is saccharine, steeped in a warmth that he clings to, savors.
Christ, he wants you, too — craves you more than air, cerulean hues glistening with a thinly-veiled ardor. It’s a sudden shift from how things were before, but the tension had finally come to a boiling point, and he was glad that it had.
Mouths connect instantaneously, eliciting a pleading moan from your throat, swallowed by his kiss. Your legs drop, spread apart to accommodate for his frame, lean muscle wedged between your thighs.
His palm kneads into your calf, dragging to the crook of your knee, caressing you over your baggy bottoms. Your hands thread against the nape of his neck, taking handfuls of his blonde tresses, ensuring that you weren’t rough with him.
Chests brush against one another, firm muscle exuding warmth, peaks of your breasts ghosting over his pectorals. Each kiss rips the air from your lungs, leaving you reeling, gasping as you feel his tongue prod against yours.
A whine bubbles from your throat, smitten, tongue shyly mingling with his as the kiss turns into a mess of passion. Your fingers are carding over the back of his skull, slipping over his hair as his teeth catch upon your bottom lip.
John grunts, the tent in his pants grinding recklessly against your core, friction causing both of you to writhe. As if to torment him, you roll your hips forward, evoking a groan from him, his gaze pleading with you to stop.
“Don’t,” He warns, strained, attempting to hold himself together. Your mouth quirks into a smile, one that he feels even as he kisses you again, your palm splaying over his shoulder. “Can I take these off?”
His hands curl into your sweatpants, fingers teasing the waistband as he waits for you to consent. As soon as you nod, accompanied by a breathy ‘yes’, he’s tearing into them, the stitching splitting apart beneath his inhuman strength.
A gasp slipped from your mouth, writhing beneath him to free yourself from the fabric, kicking them to the floor. John marvels at the sight of you, your body something perfect, malleable within his grasp, mouth planting a kiss against your jaw.
Cool air plumes over your heated flesh, offering some alleviation, a reprieve from the fever-pitch of your body. John’s hand smooths over your leg, squeezing into your thigh, digits flicking over the hem of your panties.
The brief gesture makes your head spin, desperate for him to touch you. He’s already got an idea in his head, calloused fingers rough like leather as he drags his hand between your legs.
Knuckles ghost over your clothed cunt, feeling the tangle of damp cotton, the way your throat sputters with a subtle gasp. Your thighs twitch, knees trembling on either side of him as your nails trace over the back of his neck.
“Christ,” He huffs, forehead nearly flush against yours, watching as you squirm from the brief caress. John repeats the motion, feeling your nails dig harder into his skin, mouth screwed open. “You like that?” His murmur makes you feel weak.
With a nod, you want more, hips urging into the friction of his hand. To your delight, he doesn’t torment you, doesn’t make you work for it as his fingers slip beneath your panties.
Two fingers stroke along your cunt, gathering the warm slick there with one sluggish swipe. To your utter bewilderment, he lifts his digits to his mouth, sucking them clean before he lavishes your throat in a myriad of kisses.
“John, please.” Moaning his name, the sight he just treated you to is sure to be burned in your mind forever, causing your thighs to rub together. Kissing a trail down your neck, he finds your sternum, mouth voracious, ceaseless.
A boyish grin settles onto his features, deriving enjoyment from your reaction, continuing to worship your flesh in rapturous kisses. No inch of skin is safe as he descends, lips pluming over your breasts, your ribs, navel; lower, and lower again.
You taste sweet, as if your skin oozed with sugar, and he’s savoring every piece of you, kisses steeped in a disarming reverence. His beard tickles your flesh, goosebumps cascading down your spine as he makes it to your waist.
His muscles flex, pulled taut as he crawls lower, face hovering beside your hip as he eases your panties down, letting them creep over your thighs. Everything feels hot, body set ablaze, arousal coalescing against your cunt.
Lips press to your thigh, shoulders creating space, bullying your legs apart. Digits flex, trembling as they lower to card through his tresses, gaze ensnaring with his own, causing you to shiver.
John kisses a trail over your inner thighs, toward the glistening heat at your apex, listening to your breath hitch. It’s labored, wrought with exhilaration as your back begins to arch.
That ghost of a cocksure grin feels like a hot brand against your thigh, softening when you make a strangled, pleading noise. Nearly prone against the sheets, he lets your legs recline against his shoulders, hands gripping your hips.
The first rake of his tongue over your cunt is agonizing, hot embers, scorching against your flesh as he laps traces the length of your slit. It’s sluggish, exploratory — he’s keen to know what makes you writhe.
With parted lips and eyes wrenched shut, a needy moan splits past your throat, unable to keep quiet. John’s chest stirs with a low grunt, greedy tongue deftly splitting past your folds, tasting you with a sudden fervor.
Still, he’s gentle, disarmingly so, careworn palms massaging into your hips, keeping you slotted against his face. The scruff of his blonde beard scratches ragged over the inside of your thighs, sandpaper to silk, the sensation pleasant.
John eases you into it, committing every detail of your body to memory; hoping there’s a next time, thumbs tracing circles into your skin. Lapping against your core, his ministrations slowly gather haste, nose grazing your clit.
A myriad of moans leave you, attempting to keep the sound hushed, as to not alert any unwanted attention. Your legs tense, flex on either side of his head before his shoulders nudge you apart again, mouth dragging over your cunt.
He maintains something of a rhythm, attempting to walk the line of restraint, as to not overwhelm you. Your body rattles beneath him, spasmodic tremors of delight rolling down your spine, waves of bliss felt all over, ebbing through your veins.
One hand haplessly fists at the sheets, fingers curled so tightly that you want to rip it apart. He’s too good at this, which surprises you — he doesn’t give that impression, initially.
The room feels like a furnace, bodies bleeding heat, each breath hoarse, tight with rapture. His mouth is a thing of perfection, pleasuring you as if it’s his sworn duty, tongue lapping at every inch of your cunt.
John’s gaze flutters from the task at-hand to your countenance, contorted into an expression of ecstasy, effortlessly pretty. His heart skips a beat; you’ve got him wrapped around your finger.
You’re wound up, coiled over and over again, into a tangle of heat, furled desire that’s begging to be released. Carding through his tresses, you gingerly scratch at his crown, briefly tugging on his hair, hips wantonly urging into his mouth.
“G—God, John,” A sheepish moan falls from your mouth, coupled with a sharp inhale that rips through your diaphragm. Your cunt clenches pathetically around nothing at all, back arched from the mattress. “So good at this.”
It’s an inkling of praise, but it’s enough, evoking some hunger from John, who's eager to please. The tent in his tactical pants is borderline painful, erection grinding against the bed in a pitiful attempt to alleviate some of the friction.
Driven to the brink, you feel as if you’re beginning to toe the line of some steep plunge, his lips urging you closer to a release. Everything feels hot, as if you might combust, arousal coalescing between your thighs.
John has you pinned down, nose ghosting over your folds, tongue still ceaselessly lapping at your core until there’s a shift in rhythm. He presses a kiss to your clit, listening to the tremor in your exhale, feeling your legs tense.
Teeth catch across your bottom lip, biting down with an absent pressure, digits beginning to lightly curl against his scalp. His name emerges from your mouth again, desperate and wanton, breathy as you squirm.
“You’re easy to rile up.” John murmurs from between your legs, a breathy chuckle floating from his chest when your fingers pull on his hair. He plants a reverent kiss to your thigh, teasing, but the break doesn’t last for long.
If it weren’t for his lips pursing around your clit, you might’ve clawed for a retort, but he rips any remark from your throat. The sudden ripple of bliss sends you reeling, choking on a simpering whine as you shift beneath him again.
His mouth gingerly laps at that sensitive clutch of nerves, shockwaves shattering through your body, tingles of ecstasy following suit. A strangled moan snares in your throat, slipping through when he drags his tongue along your cunt.
He’s right, though — you are easy to vex, and he’s mapping you out as if you’re intimately familiar to him already. John’s mouth is voracious, tongue endlessly greedy, eating you out as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.
You’re getting close, body being pushed to a blissful oblivion, the white-hot heat that threatens to consume you. His hand drifts from your thigh to the slick warmth between, thumb seeking your clit like a missile, slowly circling around it.
“Fuck,” You moan, the expletive uncharacteristic of you, but he finds plenty of enjoyment in you saying it. His name is soon to follow, a bedroom hymnal, repetitive as it spills from your tongue, crying out his name to the ceiling. “J—John!”
It’s pathetic how easily he’s got you squirming, tension beginning to unfurl, the knot within your belly stretched to the brink. He’s careful, tender, intimate in a way that makes your features surge with warmth.
“That’s it.” John murmurs, timbre little more than a drawl as he coaxes an orgasm from you, thumb continuing to toy with your clit until you burst. He’s mesmerized, a super-soldier reduced to a lovesick boy, watching you with a thinly-veiled rapture.
With one simple circle of your pearl, you’re gone, ecstasy bleeding from you in one wave, nearly overwhelming. You’re blinded by euphoria, white-hot stars crossing your vision until you’ve melted into the sheets.
Nerves are frayed from bliss, tossed into the throes of pleasure, one that you may not fully recover from. Stars linger still, head foggy, dizzy from a desirous haze as you try to find a scrap of composure.
He tastes you again, one last time, committing it all to memory as he kisses your leg, kneeling in-between your thighs. You’re shaking, chest tight with drawn-out sighs, gazes ensnared, burning with adoration.
“You’re really good at that.” A soft whisper rolls from your lips, appreciative, but John looks like you’ve just called him perfect. He’s starved for praise, reduced to a mere beast, laying at your feet, preening for more.
John’s up on his knees, staring a hole through you, hands reaching for his belt. Driven by both excitement and instinct, you sit up, fingers clamoring with his own as you’re helping to wrestle his belt off, unzipping the front of his tactical pants.
“You drive me crazy,” John groaned, feeling you grow smitten in the wake of his admission, desperate to be inside of you. “Can’t think straight.” He utters, and you know it’s an intentional compliment.
He repositions himself, hunched in, blanketing you with his bulky physique, lean muscle glued to your frame. He’s much larger than you, you realize, listening to the shuffling of fabric, feeling his cock press incessantly against your navel.
You’re intimidated, bewildered by his size, startlingly large, unabashedly so. Swallowing the growing lump in your throat, your hands come to hook around the back of his neck, no space remaining.
As if to ignite the tension further, your mouth catches his, lips locking together in a heated kiss. You can taste yourself, an added layer of debauchery, but he’s groaning into your lips, fisting the pillow near the side of your head.
John’s other hand finds your thigh, kneading into your haunch as he steadies himself, cock heatedly grinding against you. Mouths tangle, clash — it’s a war of teeth and tongue, thirst instead of hunger, as if he needs you more than anything.
Wanton, exhilarated breaths drag between bodies, the warmth of his sigh pluming over your features, his beard ragged against your cheek. His blonde tresses are tousled, disheveled — he’s painfully handsome, kissing all over your mouth.
He withdraws, heads flush together, mere centimeters apart as he adjusts himself, cock nudging against your folds. You’re clinging to him, a twinge of anticipation churning in your belly.
“You alright?” He utters, low and husky beside your ear, actively restraining himself from being too spirited. There’s something intoxicating about the way you’re staring at him; it’s tender, more than he deserves, he thinks.
Slowly, you plant a kiss against the scruff of his jaw, and then beneath, where a yellowing bruise sits. Hands wander to the firm muscle of his shoulders, kneading over freckled skin.
John exhales; a drawn-out, contented sound that releases coils of tension from his shoulders. With a nod of consent, you let yourself get comfortable. He drags his cock over your cunt again, biting back a stifled groan.
“Go slow,” You squeak, body already sore from the mission — he might add to it, if he isn’t careful. His lips seal themselves to your throat, peppering your flesh in a myriad of sweet kisses, nose brushing over your jugular. “I need you.”
Serum-infused blood pumps through his veins, oozing raw strength, but he knows to rein himself in, head bobbing in a brief nod. “Say that again.” John grunts, cock prodding against the warmth of your cunt, preparing to push past.
His head is partially buried into the hollow between throat and shoulder, beard prickling your flesh, a satisfying sensation. An excitable buzz wracks your body, sending tingles all over, a throbbing pulsing from between your legs.
“I need you,” Wantonly, your palm splays over his shoulder-blade, nails digging into his skin, eliciting a low groan from your paramour. “J—John, please!” It’s a plea, a desperate one, spoken through a beguiling cadence, one that winds him into tight knots.
With a shudder, John is thirsty for your embrace, a man lost within a desert, finding his oasis. His forehead nudges beside your temple, hotly grunting into your ear, sending waves of ecstasy through your belly.
His hips slowly urge forward, flushed head of his cock pushing into you with mild resistance. Disarmingly gentle, John doesn’t move quickly or rough, heeding your words as he fists at the pillow, body kissed by perspiration.
The tightness of your cunt drives him to the brink of madness, huffing beside your ear, fighting against baser, lesser instincts. Clinging to him as if he might fade through your fingers, he moves at an agonizing pace, not wanting to hurt you.
He doesn’t, a husky groan ripping through his diaphragm when your hips accidentally roll, feeling his muscles tense beneath your hands. “Jesus,” John grits out, feeling your nails dig crescents into his shoulder. “You’re perfect.”
A moan tumbles from your parted lips, his cock filling you completely, nearly bottoming out as he sinks forward. Intermingled groans and hot sighs tangle in the thin space between, heat against heat.
Your knees squeeze near his waist, legs kept spread apart by his musculature, bodies clawing for one another, ardor thinly-veiled. John’s countenance is contorted into a look of concentration coupled with bliss.
“S’good,” You moan, having adjusted enough, allowing yourself a moment of composure; it won’t last, and you know it. “Move.” Breathy and wrought with exhilaration, you give him the signal to take things further.
John’s resolve is crumbling, foundation swept away in the wake of your affections, and your wanton moan doesn’t make anything easier. Propping himself up on one arm, the other holds steadfastly to your thigh, an anchor.
Foreheads knock together, noses ghosting over one another as he begins to thrust into you, bicep flexing with exertion. The first drag of his hips sends you reeling, and you know that you won’t last long — and neither will he.
A string of hoarse expletives flutter from his mouth, barely above a whisper, setting your bones ablaze as he pulls back and pushes forward.
The fit of him is tight, cock oozing with heat as he draws back again, following through as he jolts forward.
Beneath you, the bed frame creaks — faint, as if it shows some give with the super-soldier on top of you. Your digits coax him in for a kiss, mouths colliding in a messy clash of tongue and needy lips, fire feeding fire.
John groans into your mouth, pushing and pulling, hips urging into yours, cock filling you with each thrust. Between fervent kisses and pleading moans, your head is foggy, dizzy with desire.
He develops a rhythm, the pace steady, each drag of his hips ripping a moan from your mouth, and he earned it. His hand kneads into your thigh, squeezing on occasion when the pleasure mounts, muscles coiled within his stomach.
“Y—You’re perfect,” The praise leaves your tongue as a hoarse whine, a noise that leaves goosebumps trailing over John’s spine. It’s the validation he desperately craves, the veneration, knowing he’s doing something right. “Don’t stop.”
A husky, throaty groan pierces through his chest, the noise making you shiver, arousal slick and warm between your thighs. It makes each snap of his hips easier, cock sinking into you over and over again.
It’s unintentional, his shifting pace; it begins to climb, from drawn-out and steady to needy, rutting into you as if each stroke would be his very last. John is trying to keep himself controlled, but you make it so difficult.
He slows again, the pleasure mounting, a knot that is becoming frayed at either end, prepared to be pulled apart. His cock throbs incessantly, pulsing inside of you, feeling your cunt clench around him.
Perspiration glitters along his brow, glistening along his hairline as he hunches in over you, and you feel all of him, viscerally.
The bed frame rattles in protest, as if bowing to his strength, and he’s already tearing the stitching in the pillowcase beside your head. A soft gasp slips from your lips, his mouth ghosting over yours.
Grunts of ecstasy leave him in droves, cock easing in and out of your cunt as if you’re made for him. John’s countenance is one of bliss and concentration, frustration now dissipated.
Each snap of his hips drags you further into the throes of ecstasy, and he’s nearly there, cock spearing into you. His breathing is growing ragged, raspy as it curls beside your ear, hot breath pluming over your face.
Noises surge in volume, filling his room with the sounds of vigorous lovemaking; he doesn’t care if the team hears anymore. John’s rapturous groans make you shiver in delight, head flush to yours again, the closeness addicting.
Another grunt ripples through his chest, the sound stretched, the rest tapering off as his hips begin to stutter, pace erratic and desperate. He’s close, weighing the odds of finishing inside of you, nearly whimpering when your legs hitch around his hips.
His name spills from your lips like a confessional, sobbing to the heavens, feeling your body begin to unfurl with tension. Bodies move within one another, his cock buried deep, kissing your cervix with each thrust.
From the tension in his muscles alone, you can tell that he’s about to burst, combust like fireworks in your hands. You’re on the pill, and so you urge him closer, wanting him inside of you even still.
When your name emerges from John’s mouth, you’re awestruck, flustered by the way in which he says it so tenderly. “I’m on the pill.” It’s all you’re able to say before he’s swallowing your words, covering your mouth with his.
The kiss is voracious, needy — John is unable to mask how he feels about you, letting it all bleed into tangled lips as he cums. He releases inside of you with a groan, followed by a rush of warmth that blankets your insides.
Tingles of delight wrack your body, a subdued release that seems to twine with his, a muted buzz surging through your bones. John’s hips crawl to a sluggish rhythm, agonizingly slow, as if to absorb the last few traces of friction.
Each breath heaves for composure, shallow and taut with exhilaration in the aftermath, sweat-slick skin melded together. His forehead nestles against yours, labored breathing evening out quicker than yours as he stills.
His spend and your arousal feel slick between your legs, making a mess of his sheets, joined bodies bleeding heat. You’re reeling, slower to recuperate as he pulls out of you with a soft grunt, rolling over to lay beside you.
John doesn’t leave, cerulean hues glued to your countenance, as if his whole sense of gravity has been shifted, changed. It’s hushed, save for your labored sighs, in-tandem with one another.
Wordlessly, he coaxes you closer, muscled arm hooking around your middle, inviting you to lay against his chest. One palm remains splayed, flat against your ribs, soothing you with easy caresses.
“Are you still with me?” John’s wisecrack makes you blunder, a soft laugh escaping you, hand playfully bumping against his chest.
“Yeah,” Unable to smother your smile, you’re delighted to sink into his embrace, keeping your hand on his chest. The hair beneath is something you trace through, over muscle, over old scars and greenish bruises. “I …”
As you trail off, John’s head cranes down enough to brush his lips against yours, the kiss sweet, bristling with a thinly-veiled affection. He lets you finish your thought, watching as you sit up enough to see him fully, perched on your stomach.
“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.” You utter, agonizingly soft, cadence wrought with an amalgamation of sentiments. John’s trying to be better, and it’s something you want to be a part of, if he’ll let you.
Neither did he, admittedly; it’s something John’s willing to admit to. “The thought never crossed my mind,” He murmured, blonde lashes fluttering as his hand cupped your jaw, calloused and careworn over satin skin. “But I’m not perfect.”
“I know, that’s why I like you.” With a dazzling smile, he’s caught right in the crosshairs, lips parting with a placating huff. It turns into a hum of a chuckle, his hand still firm against your side.
In a gentle clamor, his lips find yours, beard tickling your skin again, the sensation wholly pleasant. The kiss lingers, something that feels closer to home, a newfound warmth that the both of you desperately crave.
John’s mouth twitches into a half-smile, a peculiar mirth beginning to touch his eyes. He feels you plant a kiss against his shoulder, and he knows he’s completely screwed — you’re falling, but he’s falling harder.
Dating John Walker/US Agent Headcannon (SFW & NSFW)
Protective to a Fault: John has a massive protective streak. Even when you’re perfectly capable of handling things, he can’t help but step in — whether it’s someone getting too close at a bar or a rude comment online. He doesn’t always know where to draw the line between caring and controlling, which can cause fights.
Acts of Service Love Language: He’s not big on flowery words or grand gestures, but he shows he cares by doing things: fixing things around your place, cooking breakfast after a rough night, driving you everywhere so you "don’t have to deal with idiots on the road."
Rough Edges: John has a hard time opening up emotionally. He bottles things until they explode — which means your relationship can have intense arguments followed by intense makeup sessions. Over time, he slowly learns to actually talk before things blow up.
Jealousy Issues: He tries to play it cool but fails miserably. Even harmless flirting from someone else gets under his skin. It stems from his insecurities — always trying to prove he's good enough, in every area of his life, including love.
Physical Affection: He’s touchy. Always has an arm around your shoulders, hand on the small of your back, kisses the top of your head when you’re sitting together. His affection is grounding — you always know where you stand with him physically, even if his words sometimes fall short.
Takes You Shooting / Training: Big “if you’re with me, you should know how to defend yourself” energy. Dates sometimes look like shooting ranges or sparring sessions. He gets a little too excited seeing you handle a weapon well — both proud and turned on.
Private Softness: In public, he’s stoic, aggressive, military-man Walker. But behind closed doors, he’s surprisingly soft — likes when you lay on his chest while he absentmindedly runs his fingers through your hair. It’s the only time his mind shuts off.
Dog Dad Energy: Would absolutely get a big, intimidating-looking dog (like a Belgian Malinois) but spoil it rotten. You catch him baby-talking to it when he thinks you’re not listening.
Haunted Past: You have to be patient with his guilt and trauma. Some nights, he’s distant or stuck in his head about the things he's done — both as Captain America and U.S. Agent. He needs someone who can pull him back without judgment.
Ride or Die: At the end of the day, John is ferociously loyal. Once you have his trust, he’s all in — no half measures. He might screw up, but he will always come back, always fight for you.
NSFW Headcanons
Rough by Nature: John is intense in bed. He’s naturally rough — grabbing, biting, leaving marks without thinking twice. He likes seeing the aftermath: bruises, scratches, hickeys. It feeds his primal, possessive side. “Mine,” is a word he grits out often, especially when he’s deep inside you.
Possessive Sex: If someone even looks at you the wrong way, you’re getting dragged home and claimed. It’s not sweet; it’s about reminding you (and himself) that you belong to him. Expect him to go harder, rougher, and longer on those nights until you can barely walk.
Loves Control: Big on dominance. He wants to be the one giving orders, pinning you down, controlling when you come (and how many times). Hand on your throat, wrist pinned above your head — all his favorite positions give him leverage and control.
Praise Kink (But Gritty)L John’s praise isn’t flowery — it’s raw and filthy. “Good fucking girl,” “Taking me so well,” “Look at you, drooling for it.” His voice goes low and growly in your ear, and he gets off on seeing you fall apart because of him.
Frustration Equals Aggression: Bad day? You’re getting wrecked. He channels all his pent-up rage and frustration into sex — which can mean being bent over the nearest surface and taken hard and fast until he’s satisfied. But it’s never careless; he watches your limits carefully, even when he’s feral.
Breeding Kink (Canon-Adjacent): Blame the super soldier serum and his need to "leave a mark." He gets feral about finishing inside you. Talk about him knocking you up, and you’ll see him lose his mind — hips snapping harder, groaning about filling you up until it takes.
Hair Pulling & Manhandling: He’s strong, and he uses it. Pulling your hair back to expose your throat, lifting you like you weigh nothing, flipping you into position without effort — it’s part of the turn-on for both of you. Being completely overpowered by him is addictive.
Oral Fixation: Loves having your mouth busy — whether it’s on his cock or just his fingers shoved past your lips while you’re moaning. It’s about control and watching you get desperate while he stays cool and in charge.
Aftercare King (But Doesn’t Admit It): As rough and possessive as he is, John is meticulous about aftercare. Bathing you, rubbing ointment into your bruises, feeding you water and protein after a particularly intense session. He won’t call it “aftercare” — he just grumbles that you need to “take care of yourself.” But it’s his way of showing love.
Tension Turned Passion: Fights often turn into sex. Shouting, shoving, glaring — next thing you know, he’s slamming you against the wall and kissing you like he’s starved. The line between anger and arousal gets real blurry with him.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ john walker would love nothing more than to go to bed, really he wouldn’t but you won’t let him rest without him fulfilling your request.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ nighttime fun baby
use this magical link here to find a number and give me a request for ANY marvel character :), you are also welcome to send me any ideas or even thoughts you have about any marvel characters!
It continued with the sock.
A sad, balled-up sock that smacked him directly in the face like the universe was punishing him for trying to sleep. John exhaled slowly, one eye cracking open as the sock rolled off his cheek and onto the pillow beside him. Earlier it had been you laughing so hard there were tears at a war movie. That then turned into you poking him and getting his face which he just loved. He had briefly settled you down by practically holding you down and talking to you. But that was short lived.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he said, voice gravelly from sleep and exhaustion and you, dragging him through hell at 1:00 a.m.
You were a blur of an oversized t-shirt and bare legs as you half-skipped, half-crawled across the foot of the bed, energy buzzing off you like static. The lamp on the nightstand threw everything into gold-edged half-light: soft shadows, warm skin, the sharp gleam of your eyes. You threw yourself down hard onto John’s chest to which he let out a huff watching as you tossed your hair around right in his face.
“You’re being dramatic,” you said, breathless with the kind of laughter you only got after midnight. “You didn’t even flinch.”
“Because I’m numb,” he muttered, pulling the sides of his pillow around his face he mumbled out the words, “Numb to your late-night bullshit.”
You ignored him completely and got comfy on top of him using his chest as an arm rest you kicked your feet in the air behind you. Eyes alight with mischief and something warmer. “John.”
“No.”
“You didn’t even let me ask.”
“Don’t need to. I’ve seen that look before. That’s your ‘I’ve had three caffeinated drinks and cannot tell you how much caffeine was in each one behavior.” You had moved his pillow out of his face, his grip weakened from his need to get some sleep.
You grinned. “Okay, true. But seriously. Just hear me out.”
“No.”
“But what if—hypothetically—” you were leaned in as close as you could be without your faces touching, chin resting on your hands, face inches from his, “—I bit your bicep?”
His eyes closed for just a moment and then opened. Slowly. Like he couldn’t believe you’d said it. He blinked a couple of times for good measure before speaking,
“…what?”
“Your bicep,” you said, tone sultry-soft now, a velvet drawl wrapped in chaos. You were now touching your forehead against his. Your hair makes almost a fort around your two faces, “I want to bite it. Just once.”
A beat of silence. The hum of the night pressing in around the room. The overhead fan spinning a lazy circle above you both. John stared at you like he was asking whatever higher power cursed him why.
“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, not even sure what else to say. He had never heard even a similar request from you or anyone else. In fact he had never even heard it be asked on TV.
“But hot?”
“You are trying to bite me like I did not get you dinner earlier.” He was seriously confused, he considered it maybe being one of those trends where women were asking their boyfriends and that you were not being real about this.
You moved one arm to stretch down his, your palm finding his forearm, thumb dragging over the warm stretch of muscle. His body was tense—coiled, even—like he couldn’t decide if he should roll with it or run.
“You can’t blame me,” you whispered, leaning in so your breath kissed his jaw. “You walk around all day with these arms out, sleeves pushed up just enough to ruin my life. What did you think was gonna happen?” You knew that stroking his ego would get him to bend or at least consider your proposal.
He made a noise. A low, strangled kind of grunt that wasn’t quite a laugh.
“I should sedate you.”
“You could,” you said, fingers sliding up over his bicep now—slow and featherlight. “Or you could let me have one bite. A sexy one. Like... a ‘we’re alone, and it’s quiet, and you look really good in this lighting’ kind of bite.”
He turned to look at you. Really look at you. Your lips were slightly parted, breath hitching in the quiet. The lamp cast golden halos over the lines of your face, your neck, the sliver of thigh visible beneath the hoodie. And you weren’t laughing anymore—not really. There was humor there, yeah, but behind it was something hungrier. Real.
You tilted your head. “I’ll make it worth it.”
His jaw clenched.
And then, slowly, deliberately—he flexed.
You lit up like a struck match. Gleeful and glowing. Straddling his lap even tighter than before so that he could not change his mind, you let your hands smooth up his arm like you were worshipping it, not teasing it. Your lips brushed at his shoulder first—soft, reverent—then your mouth moved down to what you had been begging for. That is when your teeth sank in. Not hard. Not deep. Just enough to mark the pressure, enough for him to feel it through every nerve. You hummed low in your throat, content, lingering. Let your nose nuzzle against the skin. His hand landed on your hip without thought, fingers pressing into the curve of you.
His breath caught.
When you pulled back, you were grinning—but there was something else in your eyes. Heat. Need. That wild, unspoken ache that only surfaces in the dark when the world feels far away. You ran your tongue over your teeth with your lips slightly parted making the deepest eye contact you could.
John was looking at you like you were trouble.
Beautiful, irresistible trouble.
“That wasn’t a bite,” he said, voice rough. His hands stayed put on your waist, he could still feel the nerves in his bicep twitching and the saliva from where your tongue had just lightly touched the skin was getting cold.
You shrugged. “Wasn’t it?”
He exhaled through his nose. Shook his head. Then reached up and pulled you to him like it had been inevitable all along, he had wrapped his arms more around you to place his hand in the middle of your back in order to keep you stable. The kiss was nothing like the bite. It was hungry, unguarded—months of willpower unraveling all at once. His mouth was hot and heavy on yours, hands tight on your body like he didn’t know how to be gentle with this kind of want. You gasped into it, hands roaming anywhere you could reach, pressing your body to his like you could climb into his chest and stay there.
When you finally broke apart, your forehead rested against his.
“Still want me to go to sleep?” you whispered, breathless. Now touching his face lightly grazing your fingers on and through his facial hair.
“Hell no,” he muttered. But he rolled you onto your side, tucked you under his arm anyway, buried his face in your hair, and pulled the blanket around you both like a cocoon, one hand still splayed across your hip. And when you finally fell asleep, lips tingling and heartbeat in your throat, you could’ve sworn you felt him kiss the top of your head.
